THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY Prom the collection of Julius Doerner, Chicago Purchased, 1918. ~2rB- 4 l.lrz.^^^ THE UlS&tiY OF THE Wmfm OF ILLIKOIS SKETCHES OF THEIR FAVOURITE SCENES. By the A uthor of "Success in Life" "Memorials of Early Geniics," &'c. " The poet's or historian's page, by one Made vocal for the amusement of the rest, Bi guile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry ; the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds." Co»rpER. LONDON: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROWj EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK. 1866^ The appreciation of the varied beauties of the Poets springs from a taste as widely diffused as the love of flowers, or the intelligent admiration of nature, in all her varied phases of grandeur and loveliness. To provide, therefore, a pleasing selection from the volu- minous stores of song and poesie, with which the literature of the English language abounds, is at once a most agreeable and popular task, and one to which some of the most gifted writers of the age have lent their genius and refined taste. The present volume com.prises, in its poetical selec- tions, fhe beauty, the pathos, the keen satiric wit, and the humourous pleasantry of England's best Poets, •with sketches and pencilings of their character and X PREFACE. lives, while the whole is linked together, as by the endearing bonds of social union, preserving a picture of home, and fireside scenes, so sweetly depicted by our native songstress: — The merry homes of England ! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the mddy light ! There woman's voice flows forth in song-. Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old FIRST EVENING. P«ga The Haunts of Spenser and Sidney, ... ... ... 32 Beauties of Spenser, Sidney, and Raleigh, ... ... 41 SECOND EVENING. Favourite Scenes of Shakspere, Ben Jonson, and Drummond, 68 Beauties of Shakspere, Ben Jonson, and Drummond, ... 85 THIRD EVENING. The Character and Genius of Milton, Pope, Thomson, and Gray, 104 Beauties of Milton, Pope, Thomson, and Gray, ... ... 125 FOURTH EVENING. The Humour of the Poets. ... FIFTH EVENING. The Beauties of the Poetesses, SIXTH EVENING. The Satiric Poets, ... LAST EVENING. Modern Poets— Scott, Wordsworth, Burns, *c , . Beauties 01 Modern Poets, ... 159 195 244 276 293 EYEMNGS WITH THE POETS. Mhauxitt ^crnts. In the pleasant glades of Bedfordshii-e, in the south of England, and not far from the pretty little market- town of Ampthill, there stands a fine old Elizabethan mansion, situated in the basin formed by the gentle undulating hills, that vary that fertile county like the green waves of the summer corn when shaken by the breeze. It is a curious and antique fabric, full of quaint-looking little recesses, and odd-fashioned cor- ners and turnings, and with winding stau's and ram- l)Kng passages, such as might serve for the laby- rmths to half-a-dozen haunted chambers. Outside it is built of red brick, worn into the most picturesque irregularity by the hand of Time. Heavy clumps of brickwork rise against its gables; the oddest and 14 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. most fantastic projections and indentations variegate its form; and here and there a pretty cluster of orna- mental pinnacles and chimneys relieve the heavy mass below. A luxuriant vine trails along the south and west sides, with roses and honeysuckle contesting with it for the sunny waU, wliile an ancient clump of ivy has taken root against the north gable, and grown so strong and thick, and rambled so far and high up among the grotesque battlements and chimney- tops, that it looks as though it were about to smother the quaint bnck mansion, and, like some of the old classic fables, convert it and its inmates into trees. Towards the close of November 18 — , there assem- bled a large cii'cle of friends at this old English man- sion. Schoolmates and early acquaintances, mth cousins and youthful uncles and aunts were there; and, in short, a numerous party, chiefly at that happy period of life when innocent muth and festive enjoy- ment are entered into with a zest never afterwards experienced. Mr. and Mrs. Howard, the owners of the old manor-house of Derley, were remarkably fine examples of a hospitable couple of the good old times, as they are called, — times when there was quite as much evil as now, but when there was also kindliness, and charity, and hberal deeds, which EVENINGS WITH THE POETS, 15 we are ever apt to look back upon as pertaining to the era of kind grandpapas and grandmammas, and good old maiden amits and generous uncles, from whom we have been wont to receive so many acts of kindness and tokens of affection which we have never afterwards been in a condition to experience again. To those who have reached the downhill of life, with all its thorny cares and disappointed hopes, the early happy days of youth will ever be good old times; and now as mhthful a group of strangers to care were assembling at the old brick manor- nouse of Derley as the most benevolent heart could deshe. The party was intended as a reunion of relatives after a long separation. Colonel Howard, the eldest son of the hospitable owners of the fine old mansion, had returned from India, after an absence of many years, bringing with him a son and two daughters, who had not seen any of their English relatives smce ^ then- infancy. The old couple were among those who cherish the " superstitions of the heart," as they have been very happily termed, with an affectionate zeal that proved the kindly benevolence of their natures. Birthdays had always been looked forward to with glee by the younger folks, as seasons dedicated to 16 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. innocent enjoyment. The breaking-up and the retmii from school were anticipated with liilarous dehght ; and, above all, the festivities of the old English holi- day season of Christmas were kept up mth all the frolic and mirthful mummings which have long cha- racterised its celebration among the yeomen and cot- tagers of merry England. It was indeed one of those delightful remiions of a long-severed family circle which revive so many pleasing memories to aH. Here was the son whose birth had been the subject of rejoicing long years ago in these same old halls ; and now he came back to present to his loved parents his own son and daugh- ters, and to demand for them a share of the affection so largely lavished on himself. It was a scene with many happy suggestive associations, and some quiet and thoughtful ones, such as Rogers has pictm-ed in the scenes of Old Llewellyn Hall, Avith which he opens liis beautiful poem of Human Life : — " The lark has sung his carol in the sky ; The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby, Still in the vale the village bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn Hall the jests resound : For now the caudlo-cup is circling there, Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, ^YF.:smGS WITH THE POETS, 1 And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire The babe, t^ie sleeping image of his sire. A few short years-and then these sounds shallhail The day again, aiid gladness fill the vale ; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man. Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox sliall yield the broad sirloin ; The ale, new brewed, in floods of amber shine ; And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Alid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, ' 'Twas on these knees he sate so oft, and smiled.' And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene ; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. And once, alas, nor in a distant hour. Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard where only joy has been ; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more, He rests in holy earth with them that went before." A less peaceable and simple lot, however, had awaited the heir of Derley Manor, although his early 18 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Ufe and happy wedding might trutlifuUy be told in the poet's strains; and time had as yet thrown no darker shade than that of long separation over the loving inmates ot the old haU and the dear boy who had returned to place his own children on his parents' knees. Nothing therefore that was sad now mingled with their welcomes and happy greetings. The party that assembled at Derley Manor were invited to be present at the Christmas festivities; but as Colonel Howard was speedily to return to his command in India, and it was felt by aU that their separation must be one for a long and uncertain period, many of the near relatives had been mvited to spend together the closing month of the year. The month of December 18- was one of those fine clear mild seasons, which we occasionaUy experience as the last days of the old year draw near a close. Bright, shai-p frosty mornings tempted the youths of the party to arrange for long rambles into the country, occasionally diversified with games of cricket and foot-ball. Parties that included the older and graver guests were made up to visit some of the most inter- esting spots in the neighbourhood. In these the ladies were invited to join, and were foremost in pre- paration for theh thorough enjoyment by diligent EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 19 inquiry beforehand into all the associations con- nected with such scenes. AmpthiU Park, the beautiful seat of Lord Holland, lay invitingly near, with its fine undulating and richly wooded knolls, commanding a view for many miles over the lovely park scenery with which it is sur- rounded, and the fertile landscape, diversified here and there with the old tower or tapering spire, that told where "the Homes of England" were clus- tered round the simple village church. There little gi'oups of the merry party from Derley Manor daily strolled, tripping lightly over the mossy turf, crisp with the spangled crystals of hoar-frost, or wading through the brown leaves which the wind had gathered into the more sheltered nooks, as if to keep them for her sport when she renewed her boisterous play. This fine old English park, however, had other fea- tures to interest the ramblers, both young and old, besides the intricacies of its sylvan dells, and the richly wooded landscape which attracted the \'iew on ascending the rising grounds that vary the undulating copse. Ampthill House, once the residence of Lord Holland, the friend of Byron and the generous enemy of the Captive of St Helena, is a plain, comfortable, but unpretending country dwelling, sheltered among 20 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. trees in one of the most retired nooks of these beauti- ful grounds. Not far from it there once stood a fine Gothic mansion, the residence and last retreat of a pious and unfortunate Queen whose name is mtimately associated with some of the most memor- able events in Enghsh histoiy. On the highest gi-ound in the centre of that lovely scenery, there stands an ancient Gothic cross, elevated on a flight of steps so as to form a prominent object in the land- scape. The inscription which it bears informs the reader that in the ancient mansion once occupymg this commanding site the good Queen Katharine spent the closing years of her hfe, after her separ- ation from Henry VIII. to make way for the hapless Aime Boleyn. The sight of this mteresting memorial immediately led to an animated conversation among the little party who first discovered it. It was des- cribed by them on then* return to Deriey Manor, and several others set off to inspect it, or arranged to accompany some of the older ones in a ramble through the Park on the mon'ow. The old liall was quite an interesting scene that night. TVIrs Howard had to tell the younger folks over and over again about the cruel King Henry and bis poor Queen, with the lovely Anne Bolejm, and EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 21 the good Prince Edward, who afterwards became King. Mr. Howard accompanied several of his elder guests to the library, to seek for more minute infor- mation on the same interesting subject. Presently some were to be seen dra\ving m a chair towards the fire, and busily engaged in readmg a history of the period; while others had turned to Shakspere, and were reading in his deHghtful pages the lively pic- ture of the same eventful time. Thus did the day pass away in healthful relaxation, while the evenings were devoted to no less delightful conversation and study. Several successive days were spent in the same manner, in riding or stroUing about the magnificent parks of the Duke of Bedford surrounding Wo burn Abbey. The trees mdeed were bare, and the air keen and frosty, yet the sun shone brightly at noon, and the large herds of deer bounded through the sylvan glades, or peaceably grazed in large groups amid the fallen leaves. The pretty little town of Bedford was visited by nearly aU the party at the Manor-House, and its associations suggested re- flections that engaged them all in animated conversa- tion. There was the scene of John Bunyan's labours, and of his long imprisonment in its jail. There had been the spot whereof the Dreamer tells — 'As I 22 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. walked througli the wilderness of tHs world, I Ughted on a certain place where was a den, and laid me down in that place to sleep, and as I slept, I dreamed a dream.' The Pilgrim's Progress was produced from the library shelves that evening after tea, and both old and yomig gathered romid a cheerful fii*e in the great hall, and listened to one who read aloud some of its interesting pages, or discoursed of the pleasing asso- ciations which the remembrances connected with their first reading of it revived. From Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress the conversation again reverted to its author. Many curious questions were put by the younger members of the company, and old Mrs. Howard espe- cially was occasionally somewhat puzzled how to satisfy her eager young inqukers, or to explain to them so much of the ahegory as became necessary to reconcile them to the idea tliat John Bunyan himself had not actuaUy fought with ApoUyon, or escaped from Doubting Castle, or seen old Giant Pope, in his dotage, grinning at him from the mouth of his cave. So much interested, however, were the whole party in the celebrated "Tinker of Bedford," that it was de- termined the very next day they should proceed in a body to visit the picturesque little hamlet of Elstow, EYEIflNGS WITH THE POETS. 23 and see for themselves the birth-place of the immortal dreamer. Full of the brightest anticipations for the morrow, the younger folks withdrew early to bed. By and by the older ones closed their books, and showed symptoms of an inclination to follow theb- example, until at length the old hall was entirely de- serted, and left once more to silence and darkness. The experience of the Christmas party assembled in the neighbourhood of Ampthill had hitherto rea- lized the pleasing description of a bright and cheerful winter, which Cowper has drawn with such delightful freedom in the Task : — ■ " The night was winter in its roughest mood ; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all ita rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; And through the trees I view th' embattled towei' Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, stili verdant, under oaks and elms, 24 EYEXIXGS WITH THE POETS. Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well suflQced, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thcugni;. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppressed ; Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the withered leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heajt May give a useful lesson to the head, And Learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. • • * • Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment, hoodwinked. Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear TJie insupportable fatigue of thought, And swallowing therefore without pause or choice The total grist unsifted, husks and all. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 25 But trees and rivulets, whose rapid course Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, A-nd sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time Peeps thro' the moss, that clothes the hawthorn root. Deceive no student." A very different scene, however, awaited the sleepers when they awoke on the morrow. The evening had been bttterly keen, and such of them as had not slept too soundly to be distui'bed by the noise, had over- heard, durmg the night, the gusts of wind driving round the house, shaking at the casements, and hur- ling against the window-panes huge swirls of twigs and withered leaves, like some lusty wanderer, boisterous and impatient to get m. Sleep, however, sunk on all the happy inmates of the old JVIanor-House, and if any of them remembered the storm of the preceding night when they awoke, it was only to experience increased pleasm-e at the thought that it had passed away. The bright morning hght was on the wmdow-panes, and the twittenng of some stray sparrows, as if begguig for crumbs, seem.ed to promise another fine clear day of frosty sunshine for the proposed excursion to Elstow. A very different and unexpected prospect, however, greeted the first early riser who drew aside the ^m- 26 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. dow-cui'tains to peep forth at the scene of the last night*8 stormy g^usts of driving wind. The same vigorous poet from whom we have al- ready quoted, beautifully describes the change which now awaited the momiug watchers as they peeped forth on the winter landscape that surrounded their pleasant abode : — " IIow calm is my recess ; and how the frost, ' Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear The silence and the warmth enjoyed within 1 I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show ; the meadows green, Though faded ; and the lands, where lately waved The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With verdure not unprofitable, grazed By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each Ills favourite herb ; while all the leafless groves That skirt th* horizon, wore a sable hue, Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change I AVhich even now, though silently performed, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Of universal nature undergoes. Fast falls a fleecy shower : the downy flakes Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse, EVENINGS WIl^H THE POETS. 27 Softly alighting upon all below, Assimilate all objects. Earth receives Gladly the thickening mantle ; and the green And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil." Many a sad and disheartened countenance appeared that morning among the group that assembled round the breakfast table. The conversation of the preced- ing evening, added to the scenes of the day's ramble, and the lively interest that had been excited in all their minds by the associations of the Pilgrim and his wondrous dream with the actual scenes with which they were surrounded, had made the young people look forward to their proposed visit to Elstow with a vague yet highly excited expectation of pleasure, that made their disappointment all the more mortifying ; nor were their seniors without some sympathy in their disappointment. A group of young and Kght-hearted playmates, however, are not much given to brood fery long or bitterly over such a mischance. The ladies speedily reconciled themselves to the im- possibility of wading through the snow, or facing the storm, wliich the heavy laden clouds gave promise would speedily return with increased fury. They ac- cordingly were soon busy, some with their needle or 28 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. pencil, and some with their books, or portfolios and prints ; while music, dancing, and even battle-door and shuttlecock, beguiled the dull day to those who were too young to care for such pastunes as engaged the attention of their seniors. The young gentlemen were not so easily reconciled to their fate. While it continued fair, indeed, the most of them adjourned to the lawn and enjoyed themselves, wlnle they amused their fan- friends who looked on from the neighbouring windows, by forming themselves into two rival par- ties, and engaging in a pitched battle with snow-balls. Had the weather continued favourable, there was little appearance of their wearying of this sport. Large snow-balls were rolled, and the opposing factions had united for a time to build a huge snow castle on the lawn, which it was designed that the one party should hold out, while the other laid siege to the ghttering fortress. While the bold ramparts, however, were rising under their united efforts, the storm again broke out. Half-melted snow, w^th rising gusts of wmd, that drifted it into their faces, compelled the heroes of the fight to retreat together mto the hall, and now the interrupted siege was even more keenly mourned than the morning's disappointment. WTiOe things were in tliis unsatisfactory and un- EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 29 comfortable state, and as Mrs. Howard saw from the increasing storm that in-door amusements must probably be the sole resource of her guests until the Clmstmas eve brought others to mingle with them and add to then- mirth or relieve their ennui, she set herself to engage them heartily in devising means of mutual entertainment. Blind-man's-buff was resorted to by some, dancing and music again formed the solace of others, but after a while they were all assembled in the library, many of them list- lessly pormg over the leaves of a book of prints, or watching their neighbours with ill- concealed weari- ness and indifference. Matters were in this very un- promising state when Miss Caroline Howard, Colonel Howard's eldest daughter, invited the attention of her cousins and young friends to a proposition she had to make for then- mutual amusement. There had been, she said, a numerous company of passengers on board the ship in which she returned from India with her father, and they had frequently found it an agreeable pastime to relate to one another the stories they had heard or read of, or to repeat selections from the poets whose works they had studied. She now proposed to them that they should adopt the -same practice; and as they were likely to have a good deal of time for 30 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. such amusement, she further suggested that a particu- lar subject should be named for illustration, or the works of some favourite poet selected for their themes each evening, and that all of them should be bound to recite in their turn some poem illustrative of the subject chosen for their sederunt. This proposal of Miss Howard was received with the utmost satisfaction; and, as soon as tea was over, they all assembled again in the library, where a cheer- ful fire was blazing, and chairs were arranged ready for them round the hearth. The whole party, both old and young, cordially entered into the scheme. Miss Howard was unanimously chosen Queen of the Night, and requested by her smiling subjects to name the theme that should excite their friendly rivalry, and task their memories dming that evening's assem- blage. The large old-fasliioned arm chair was forth- with brought forward amid considerable merriment and bantering, and being duly placed in the chief place with a footstool before it, it was declared to be the throne, whither Miss Howard was conducted by one of her subjects, and, with formal ceremonial, crowned with a wreath of holly as their chosen Queen. Silence having at length been restored to the assem* EVENINGS WITH THE POETS, 31 biy, tne Queen invited them to begin the proposed pastime by each repeating some favourite passage from the delightful writings of Spenser, one of the noblest and least known of England's poets, or from those of his friend Su" Phihp Sidney. As they had been cheated of the opportunity of visiting the haunts of the Pilgrim and Dreamer of Bedford, it would be no unmeet substitute for that intended pastime to glance at some of the refined allegories of the Fairy Queen, which had been considered by many as the source from whence Bunyan drew the germ of his immortal work. A slight murmur ran through the assembly on this announcement, and several of the younger subjects of the newly-elected Queen loudly pro- tested against the choice of two such poets, to whose works they were perfect strangers. Order, however, was restored after a time, and her Majesty speedily reconciled her unruly subjects to her commands by pomting to the well stored shelves of the library, and intimating that each would be at liberty to resort to its treasures for a selection with which to contribute to the gratification of the company. All difficulties being thus removed, the Queen re- ceived the marked attention of her subjects as she commenced the introductory sketches of The fa- 32 vouKiTE Localities and Themes of the Poets bj tb3 following narrative of ^t ijmnU 0f Spenser attb SMtrj, In the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey, where many very poor and unworthy monuments have been dedicated to the memory of our greatest men, there stands one which bears on it the name of " Ednmnd Spenser, the prince of poets." It is not expected m these pleasant evenings' recreations that you shoidd receive a minute biographic narrative of the eminent men whose works we are to ransack for our instruction and entertainment. Suffice it that we glance at some of the scenes that have been rendered sacred by the presence of this noble English poet. Spenser was born in the year 1553, in East Smith- field, London, in the neighbourhood of the Tower — the fortress and state prison of the capital, strangely and sadly associated with many of England's gi'e_atest names. He appears to have been of good birth, but in humble circumstances, and accorduigly we find him entered as a sizer at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge in his sixteenth year. His progi-ess was rapid, and his success marked by honorary degrees of his Col- EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 33 lege. While there he formed an intimate friendship with Gabriel Harvey, a companion whose pedantic affection for the poetry of Greece and Rome was suc- cessfully exerted for a time to divert the great poet into the imitation of classic models, mstead of becom iiig the transcriber of truth and nature. To Harvey, how- ' ever, he was mdebtedforan introduction to Sir Philip Sidney, by whom he was aftei^-ards recommended to the powerful patronage of the Earl of Leicester. Meanwhile this introduces us, as it did him, to the beautiful Parks of Penshurst, one of the loveliest haunts ever frequented by the muses; where Spenser and Sidney were wont to stray together and discourse of the chaiins of the nature and " the divine art of poesie." There still stands the magnificent oak tree ' that sprung from an acom planted in the green lawn at the birth of Su* Philip Sidney, and then a young and thriving tree while Spenser and he sought tlie shade of the goodly fathers of the chase, most of which have long since disappeared by the hand of time and the woodman's axe. No wonder that tliis memorial-tree has been celebrated by many of oui- best writers. Ben Jonson speaks of it as " That talier tree, w hich of a nut was set At Ms great birth, where all the muses met." 3 34 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. And WaUer has made it the theme of his sweet and elegant verse, m some of the most happy hnes of that inconsistent and versatile courtier : » Go, boy. and carve this passion on the bark Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark Of noble Sidney's birth ; where such benign, Such more than mortal-making stars did shine, • That there they cannot but for ever prove The monument and pledge of humble love- His humble love, whose hope shall ne'er rise higher Than for a pardon that he dares admire." Is not the spot thus sacred to the muses such a haunt as one would delight to Unger m through a long smmner day, with some sweet poet's page, to wliile away the thne, and help the pleasing fancy to dweU on the memories that Unger about the sylvan scene? Here, wliile residmg under the hospitable roof of Sh PHUp Sidney, Spenser produced his Shepherd's Calendar-a poem that enjoyed a high populaiity among his contemporaries. Here, too, Sidney penned his own Arcadia, and wrote the sm- gularly beautiful somiets of liis Astrophel and SteUa. In 1580 the poets separated, and Spenser accompa- nied Lord Gray de Wilton to Ireland, in the capacity of Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant. By the media- EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. 35 tion of powerful friends the poet received trom Qaeen Elizabeth a gi-ant of 3000 acres of land in Cork. Here, therefore, Spenser resided in his adopted coun- try, surrounded with magnificent scenery. The noble castle of KUcolman, an ancient residence of the Earls of Desmond, was the favoured spot where the poet received the visit of another congenial spirit, Sir Walter Raleigh, to whose influence it has been usual to ascribe the commencement of the Fairy Queen. By the terms of the royal grant, which couferred on the poet his Irish possessions, he was bound to take up his residence there, and personally to supermtend the cultivation of the lands bestowed on him. His an- cient castle, where the Earls of Desmond had ruled in state, and which acquired an interest so endur- ing and lively as the abode of genius, — the dwell- ing-place of him who wrote the Fairy Queen,— has long since become a waste and desolate ruin. It is described by one who visited it m this state, as a magnificent ruin, occupying a commanding site on the margin of one of the lovely lakes of the green isle. It is situated in the midst of a vast plain, stretching away towards the east to the base of the Waterford mountams, and on all sides closed in by lofty ground. Here the Ballyhowra hUls swell upward in gentle un- EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. dulation towards the north; while southward, and strctchmg away towards the eastern heights, are the Nagle and Kerry monntams, looking down on the broad plain, with its placid lake spread out before them. The situation is altogether lovely and roman- tic; and m the rude state of the country m the poet's day, with the wild natural wood clothmg many of the heights and spreadmg into the plam, it must have had just enough of rugged wildness to add a charm to it in the eye of Spenser. The river Mulia stiU rmis through the neighbouring grounds as when Spenser strayed by its banks wi-apt in thought, or gave wmg to his fancy, and pictured himself and Raleigh as two shepherds tuning their pipes beneath the overhanging alders that clothed its banks, and dipt their spray into the murmurmg stream. It requires not, how- ever, a reference to these poetic fancies to give an interest to the river which Spenser has so frequently celebrated, for on its banks he and Raleigh have often sat,-the young soldier, then a Captain m the Queen's Guard, listenmg amid these beautiful and appropriate scenes to the compositions of his friend, or discom'smg with him concerning his own enthusiastic and ^ision- ary projects. _ Spenser accompanied the future discoverer of Vir- EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 37 ginia to England, and was introduced by him to Queen Elizabeth. He met with a hearty reception from Lis royal patron, and soon after received a substantial token of her favour in the grant of a pension of £50 yearly. We shall not attempt to follow the fortunes of Raleigh, the poet, the historian, the bold navigator, the statesman, and the soldier. He became the vic- tim of the mean jealousy of Queen Elizabeth's suc- cessor, and perished at length on the block — a strik- ing example of the vicissitudes of public life, and the true nobility which can triumph over adversity in its most bitter aspects. Spenser returned to his castle at Kilcolman, but the associations with this lovely demesne are anytliing but pleasing. A rebeEion broke out in Ireland; Spenser fled with his family from their blazing habi- tation, a ruined and heart-broken fugitive, and died in London, it is believed, in gi-eat destitution; — a far more mournful close than that of the scholar, the poet, the courtier, and the soldier. Sir Phihp Sidney, who fell mortally wounded at the head of his troops, in the thirty-third year of his age, and very shortly after he had entered on his office of Governor of Flushing, to which he had been appointed by the fa- vour of Queen Elizabeth. 38 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. So ended the narrative of the Queen of the even- ing, which was received with murmurs of applause; and she immediately followed it up by recitmg the beautiful passage from the Fairy Queen with which the selection begms. We shaU not interrupt the tasteful aiTay of poetic gems thus supplied from the stores of each retentive memory, by relating the com- ments that followed each piece, or the apologies and explanations with which they were occasionally mtro- duced, but simply placing the poem with which Queen Caroline began the evening's proceedmgs in its appro- priate place at the beginnmg, we shall arrange the others in the order they were given, and so proceed to The Beauties of Spenser, Sidney, and Raleigh. BEAUTIES OF SPENSER, SIDNEY, AND RALEIGH. ! BEAUTIES OF SPENSER, SIDNEY, kid RxiLEIGIL Spenser. UNA FOLLOWED BY THE LION. Nought is there under Heaven's wide hollowness, That moves more dear compassion of mmd, Than beauty brought t' unworthy wretchedness Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind I, whether lately through her brightness blind, Or through allegiance and fast fealty, Which I do owe unto all womankind. Feel my heart pierc'd with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pity I could die. And now it is impassioned so deep, For fairest Una's sake, of whom I sing. That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep. To think how she through guileful handelling, Though true as touch, though daughter of a king. 42 EVENINaS WITH THE POETS. Thougli fair as ever linng wiylit was fair. Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting, Is from her knight divorced in despair, And her due love's deriv'd to that vile witch's share. Yet she, most faithful lady, all this while Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid. Far from all people's preace, as in exile. In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd, To seek her knight, who, subtily betray'd Through that late vision, which th' enchanter wrought, Had her abandoned : she, of nought afraid, Through woods and wasteness wide him daily sought | Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought. One day, nigh weary of the irksome way. From her unhasty beast she did alight ; And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; From her fair head her fillet she undight. And laid her stole aside : her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, And made a sunshine in a shady place ; Did never moi'tal eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood, A ramping lion rushed suddenly. Hunting full greedy, after savage blood ; Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 43 With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have at once devour'd her tender corse ; But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, And, with the sight amaz'd, forgot his furious force. Instead thereof he kiss'd her weary feet, And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue. As he her wronged innocence did weet. 0 how can beauty master the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! Whose yielded pride and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long. Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion. And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. " The Hon, lord of every beast in field," Quoth she, " his princely puissance doth abate. And mighty proud to humble weak does yield. Forgetful of the hungry rage which late Him prick'd, in pity of my sad estate : But he. my Hon, and my noble lord, How does he find in cruel heart to hate Her that him loved, and ever most ador'd. As the God of my life ? why hath he me abhorred ?" Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint. Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood ; And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint. 44 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. The Idngly beast upon her gazing stood ; With pity calm'd, down fell his angi-y mood. At last, in close heart shutting up her pain, Arose the virgin, born of heavenly brood, And to her snowy palfrey got again, To seek her strayed champion, if she might attain. The lion would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong guard Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard. Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ^Ya^d And, when she wak'd, he waited diligent. With humble service to her will prepar'd : From her fair eyes he took comroandement, And ever by her looks conceived her intent. THE IDLE LAKE. Whom bold Cymochles travelling to find, With cruel purpose bent to wreak on him The wrath which Atin kindled in his mind, Came to a river, by whose utmost brim Waiting to pass, he saw whereas did swim \long the shore, as swift as glance of eye, A little gondelay, bedecked trim BVENINUS WITH THE POETS. 45 With boughs and arbours woven cuimuagly, That like a little forest seemed outwardly ; And therein sate a lady fresh and fair, Making sweet solace to herself alone ; Sometimes she sung as loud as lark in air, Sometimes she laugh'd, that nigh her breath was gone ; Yet was there not with her else any one, That to her might move cause of merriment ; Matter of mirth enough, though there were none. She could devise, and thousand ways invent To feel her foolish humour and vain jollyment. Which when far off, Cymochles heard and saw,. He loudly called to such as were aboard The little bark, unto the shore to draw, And him to ferry over that deep ford : The merry mariner unto his word Soon hark'ned, and her painted boat straightway Turned to the shore, where that same warlike lord She in received ; but A tin by no way She would admit, albe the knight her much did pray. Eftsoons her shallow ship away did slide, More swift than swallow sheers the liquid sky, Withouten oar or pilot it to guide, Or winged canvas with the wind to fly : Only she turned a pin, and by and by 46 EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. It cut away upon the yielding wave ; Ne cared she her com'se for to apply, For it was taught the way which she would have, And both from rocks and flats itself could wisely save. And all the way the wanton damsel found New mirth her passenger to entertain ; For she in pleasant purpose did abound, And greatly joyed merry tales to feign, Of which a store-house did with her remain, Yet seemed nothing well they her became ; For all her words she drowned with laughter vain, And wanted grace in utt'i'ing of the same, That turned all her pleasuance to a scoffing game. And other whiles vain toys she would devise As her fantastic wit did most delight : Sometimes her head she fondly would aguize With gaudy garlands, or fresh flowrets dight About her neck, or rings of rushes plight : Sometimes to do him laugh, she would assay To laugh at shaking of the leaves light. Or to behold the water work and play About her little frigate, therein making way. " In this wide inland sea, that hight by name The Idle Lake, my wandriug ship I row, That knows her port, and thither sails by aim, Nor care nor fear I how the wind do hlow^ EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 47 Or whether swift I wend or whether slow : Both slow and swift aUke do serve my turn ; Nor swelling Neptune, nor loud-thund'ring Jove, Can change my cheer, or make me ever mourn ; My little boat can safely pass this perilous boui'ne." Whiles thus she talked, and whiles thus she toy'd, They were far past the passage which he spake, And come into an island waste and void, That floated in the midst of that great lake ; There her small gondelay her port did make. And that gay pair issuing on the shore Disburthen'd her : their way they forward take Into the land that lay them fair before, Wliose pleasaunce she him show'd, and plentiful great store. BELPHOBE AND TIMIAS. ' She on a day, as she pursu'd the chace Of some wild beast, which, with her arrows keen, She wounded had, the same along did trace By tract of blood, which she had freshly seen To have besprinkled all the grassy green ; By the great pursue which she there perceiv'd, Well hoped she the beast engor'd had been. And made more haste the life to have bereav'd But, ah ! her expectation greatly was deceiv'd. 48 Shortly she came whereas that woeful squire, With blood deformed, lay in deadly swound ; In whose fair eyes, hke lamps of quenched fire, The crystal humour stood congealed round ; His locks, hke faded leaves, fallen to ground. Knotted with blood, in bunches rudely ran, And his sweet lips, on which, before that stound. The bud of youth to blossom fair began, Spoil'd of their rosy red, were waxen pale and wau. Saw never hving eye more heavy sight. That could have made a rock of stone to rue Or rive in twain ; which when that lady bright Besides all hope, with melting eyes did view. All suddenly abash'd, she changed hue, Aud with stern horror backward 'gan to start > But when she better him beheld, she grew Full of soft passion and unwonted smart ; The point of pity pierced through her tender heart Meekly she bowed down, to weet if life Yet in his frozen members did retain. And feeling by his pulse's beating rife That the weak soul her seat did yet remain. She cast to comfort him with busy pain. His double-folded neck she rear'd upright, And rubb'd his temples and each trembling vein ; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 49 His mailed habeijon she did undight, And from his head his heavy burganet did light. By this he had sweet life recur'd again. And groaning inly deep, at last his eyes, His watery eyes, drizzling like dewy rain. He up 'gan lift toward the azure skies. From whence descend all hopeless remedies : Therewith he sigh'd ; and turning him aside, The goodly maid, full of divinities. And gifts of heavenly grace, he by him spied. Her bow and golden quiver lying him beside. " Mercy, dear Lord !" said he, "what grace is this That thou hast showed to me, sinful wight, To send thine angel from her bower of bliss To comfort me in my distressed plight ? Angel, or goddess, do I call thee right ? What service may I do unto thee meet, That hast from darkness me retum'd to light. And with thy heavenly salves and med'cines sweet Hast drest my sinful wounds ? I kiss thy blessed feet." Thereat she blushing said, " Ah ! gentle Squire, Nor goddess I, nor angel, but the maid And daughter of a woody nymph, desire No service but thy safety and aid. Which if thou gain, I shall be well apaid. 4 50 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. We mortal wights, whose lives and fortunes be To common accidents still open laid, Are bound with common bond of frailty, To succour wretched wights whom we captived see.** ABSENCE. Since I did leave the presence of my love, Many long weary days I have outworn. And many nights that slowly seem'd to move Their sad protract from evening until morn. For, where as day the heaven doth adorn, I wish that night the noyous day would end ; And when as night hath us of light forlorn, I wish that day would shortly reascend. Thus I the time with expectation spend. And fain my grief with changes to beguile, That further seems his term still to extend, And maketh every minute seem a mile. So sorrow still do'Ji seem too long to last, But joyous hoars do fly away too fast. SEPARATION. Like as the culver, on the bared bough Sits mourning for the absence of her mate. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 51 And in her songs sends many a wishful vow For his return, that seems to linger late ; So I alone, now left disconsolate, Mom-n to myself the absence of my love, And, wand'rihg here and there, all desolate. Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove No joy of aught that under heaven doth hove, Can comfort me but her own joyous sight. Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move, In her unspotted pleasures to delight. Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss. And dead my life, that wants such hvely bliss. HIGHER ASPIEATIONS. Leave me, oh Love ! which reachest but to dust ; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher thmgs, Grow rich in that which never taketh rust : Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be ; 52 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light, That doth but shine and give us sight to see. Oh ! take fast hold, let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth draws out of death, And think how ill becometh him to slide. Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world, thine uttermost I see ; Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me. TO SLEEP. FROM THE AKCADI.C Come sleep, 0 sleep, the certain knot of peace. The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ; The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. The indifferent judge between the high and low. With shield of proof shield me from out the press Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw ; Oh make in me those civil wars to cease: I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; A. chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light ; A rosy garland, and a weary head. And if these things, as being thine by right. Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stdla's image see. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 53 AN ALLEGORY. In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me addi'ess, While with the people's shouts, I must confess. Youth, luck, and praise, e'en fiU'd my veins with pride ; When Cupid having me his slave descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, " What now, Sir Fool said he, " I would no less ; Look here, I say." — I look'd, and Stella spied. Who hard by made a window send forth light ; My heart then quak'd, then dazzled were mine eyes ; One hand foi'got to rule, th' other to fight ; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. My foe came on and beat the air for me. Till that her blush taught me my shame to see HAPPY THAMES. 0 HAPPY Thames, that didst my Stella bear, 1 saw myself, with many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did slilne j The boat for joy could not to dance forbear ; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine 54 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Ravish'd, stayed not till in her golden hair They did themselves, oh sweetest prison ! twine ; And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay Have made, but fore'd by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display : She, so dishevell'd, blush'd: — from window 1, With sight thereof, cried out, 0 fair disgrace, Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place. BaUtgl). THE COUNTEY'S RECREATIONS. Heart-tearing cares and quivering fears, Anxious sighs, untimely tears. Fly, fly to courts. Fly to fond worldling's sports ; Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still, And Grief is forced to laugh against her vnW ; Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 55 Fly from our country pastimes, fly ; Sad troop of human misery 1 Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty. Peace and a secure mind. Which all men seek, we only find. Abused mortals, did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers. And seek them in these bowers ; Where winds perhaps our woods may sometimes shake. But blustering care could never tempest make ; Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. Saving of fountains that glide by us. ***** Blest silent groves I 0 may ye be For ever mirth's best nursery I May pure contents For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains. And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Which we may every year Find when we come a-fishing here ! 56 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. THE SILENT LOVER. Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams i The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb : So when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come ; They that are rich in words must needs discover They are but poor in that which makes a lover. Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion. Since if my plaints were not t' approve The conquest of thy beauty, It comes not from defect of love, But fear t' exceed my duty. • For not knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection As all desire, but none deserve A place in her affection ; 1 rather choose to want relief, Than venture the revealing ; Where glory recommends the grief, Despair disdains the healing. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 57 Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty ; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity. Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My love for secret passion ; He smarteth most who iiides his smart, And sues for no compassion. A VISION UPON THE FAIRY QUEEN. Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn : and passing by that way To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept, All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept ; And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen, For they this Queen attended ; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed. And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce, Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, And curs'd th' access of that celestial thief. 58 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. THE SHEPHEKD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. Melibaeus. Shepherd, what's love ? I pray thee tell. Faustus. It is that fountain and that well Where pleasure and repentance dwell ; It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell That tolls all into heav'n or hell. And this is love as I heard tell. Meli. Yet, what is love ? I prithee say. Fans. It is a work on holiday ; It is December match'd with May, When lusty blood's in fresh array. And this is love as I hear say. AfclL Yet, what is love ? good shepherd, saine ! Faus. It is a sunshine mixt with rain ; It is a toothache, or like pain ; It is a game where none doth gain ; The lass saith no, and would full fain 1 — And this is love as I hear saine. MelL Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray ? Fans. It is a yea, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray; It is a thing will soon away ; Then nymphs take 'vantage while you may I — And this is love as I hear say. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 59 Mdi Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show I Fa/us. A thing that creeps, it cannot go ; A prize that passeth to and fro ; A thing for one, a thing for moe, And he that proves shall find it so ; And, shepherd, this is love, I trow. HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. Shall I, like a hermit, dwell On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day ? If she undervalue me. What care I how fair she be ! Were her tresses angel gold, If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid. To convert them to a braid ; And with little more ado Work them into bracelets, tool If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be I EVENINaS WITH THE POETS. Were her hand as rich a prize As her hau-s, or precious eyes, If she lay them out to take Kisses, for good manners' sake ; And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip ; If she seem not chaste to me. What care I how chaste she be I No ; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show ; Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire, by burning too ; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot, Then, if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be ! THE SOUL'S EREAND. Go, Soul, the body's gu^st, Upon a thankless errand. Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant 5 Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 61 Go, tell the Court it glows, And shines like rotten wood ; Go, tell the Church it shows What's good, and doth no good If Church and Court reply. Then give them both the lie. Tell men of high condition That rule affairs of state. Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate j And if they once reply. Then give them all the lie. Tell Age it daily wasteth, Tell Honour how it alters. Tell Beauty how she blastcth. Tell Favour how she falters ; And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell Wit how much it wrangles In treble points of niceness, Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness ; And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. 62 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Tell Fortune of her blindness. Tell Nature of decay, Tell Friendship of unkindnesa, Tell Justice of delay ; And if tliey will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming, Tell schools they want profoundness. And stand too much on seeming ; If arts and schools reply. Give arts and schools the lie. Tell Faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country erreth, Tell manhood shakes off pity, Tell Virtue least preferreth ; And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing j Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing ; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab tlie Soul can kill. SECOID EVENING. - SECOND EYENIKG. Many of our readers will remember somewhat of the dreadful suow-storm of 18 — , the beginnmg of which had driven the happy cii'cle of friends at Derley Manor to have recourse to in-door amusements, and the pleasing recreation of which we have described the earHest procedings. The storm continued with unabated fury during the night and through the fol- lowing day. Piercmg gusts of wmd di-ifted it along the lawn and into the dell thi-ough which the pleasant little stream of Derley water had recently murmm-ed over its pebbly bed. Now it was fast chained in the icy grasp of winter, and buried beneath heaps of drifting snow. It was, indeed, a season long re- membered by many. All along the South Downs, and among the Northumberland and Cumberland hills, the flocks of sheep that had been tempted astray by 5 66 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. the uncommon mildness of the season, were exposed to its utmost fury. Thousands of them perished m the snow both there and on the Scottish hills, and many a poor shepherd when courageously ventm-ing forth to rescue them from destruction perished m the same treacherous snow-drifts where his stray flock had been overwhelmed before. No post reached the neighbouring market town, and scarcely any one ventured across the tlii-eshold of Derley Manor. Under these circumstances the happy circle assembled in the Hbrary on the second evening, well pleased to resume the intellectual rivahy which had abeady beguiled away an evening with so much pleasure to all. Some httle discussion took place as to the choice of a successor to their Queen, an act which was entered upon with very grave earnestness by the younger members of the company, and afforded con- siderable merriment to their seniors. The decision, however, was at length referred to Mrs. Howard, who expressed her opinion that the selection of a successor should be left entirely to Queen Caroline, with only this proviso, that she should be bound to make choice of a King, so that all might have a chance of attain- ing to the honours of then- evening assemblies. This decision was received with shouts of applause by the EYENINUS WITH THE POETS. 67 younger folks ; and amid much merriment, occasioned by the difficulty which Queen Caroline professed to feel in fixing on her successor, she at length stept into the middle of the circle, and gracefully taking the crown of holly from her own head, placed it on that of her cousin, Alfred Dudley, a young gentleman nearly of her own age, who had been her guide and companion in their previous rambles through the parks of AmpthiU and Wobum, and the neighbouring country. King Alfred the Second, as one of his younger sub- jects merrily hailed him, was welcomed on his acces- sion with fully as much appearance of heartfelt joy and mirthful acclamation as awaits the most popular descendants of the great English lawgiver. He was escorted to his throne, and inaugurated with the most ceremonial pomp ; and the younger part of the assem- bly seemed so greatly delighted with this introductory part of the evening's proceedings that the new mon- arch found some difficulty in restoring order and obe- dience. Silence, however, being at length secured the King of the evening began the business of his reign by engaging their attention to the following re- marks on the 68 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. FAVOURITE SCENES OF Sl)ahspere, leu Jl0ttS0ti, anb Irutttmottb OF HAWTHOKNDEN. It is a strange circumstance in the biogi'aphical re- miniscences of the great men of England, that of Shak- spere, the greatest among them as a poet, we know almost nothmg. The most diligent and enthusiastic research has failed to elicit other than the most scanty, and sometimes contradictory, information regarding him. Somethmg, however, has been accomphshed of late years by the earnest enthusiasm of his bio- graphers, and far more than coul*have been antici- pated after so long a period of unobservant silence had intervened. But it is not expected of me that I should discuss for you this evening, with a late zealous biogi'apher, whether a gallant ancestor of the poet shook his spear on the field of Bosworth in 1485; or whether even « Jolm Shakspere, of Stratford-upon-Avon, in the county of Warwick, gentleman," the father of our EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 69 poet, was clerk enough to sign his own name, or had only a mark to himself " hke an honest plam-dealing man." Our consideration is of the haunts of him of whom Hs brother poet and friend, Ben Jonson, wrote in playful dalliance with his name: « He seems to * shake a lance,' As brandished at the eyes of ignorance." Stratford-on- Avon, the home of Shakspere's youth and mature age, the scene of his early love, and of his pm^est young fancies, has attracted thousands m every age, as pHgrims to the spot rendered sacred as the birthplace and the gi'ave of one of the world's most gifted sons. The locaHty is not marked by bold or stem and rugged features, as the poet's teachers ; yet it is one of many beauties, such as adorn the sweet rural landscapes of England's hills and dales. « The soft flowing Avon" winds its silver stream placidly through the fertile district rich with the promised har- vest, or sweetly scented with the broad fields of vio- lets, that are there cuhivated as an article of commerce. Yet his own Avon abounded with more poetic beau- ties than those that spoke only of a promised harvest and a well-stored barn-yard. Quiet hamlets are shel- tered amid its wooded parks in spots of singular 70 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. beauty. The free footpath winds along the reedy- banks of the river, and leads off by stile or wicket into many a rambling walk, inviting the musing wan- derer to follow on the track. The shady woods, too, have their solitary nooks for sweet retirement ; while the village-green then lay open with its maypole for the first garland of summer, and its youths and maid ens, — a far nobler study for him even than the beau- ties of inanimate nature. Stratford had its historic associations, too, for the gratification of the young poet's fancy and the formation of his mind. All around him there were scenes where great deeds had been enacted, and great men had lived and died. Within his wider range lay the fine old historic towns of Warwick and Coventry, with the grim dimgeon and towers of the feudal fortress, and magnificent clmrches scarcely surpassed elsewhere in England. There, too, lay the monastic remains of Evesham, and the stately pile of Kenilworth, then no wild ruin, but a sumptu- ous palace, where one of the wealthiest of England's nobles dwelt in state, amid his hosts of retainers, a sovereign in his own domain. Stratford, too, had its own home attractions, and its occasional share in the wonders of the time. Its fine old church, where Shakspere lies amid his kindred EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 71 was not without its influecne on him while hs lived. Nor was Stratford shut out from the general world as many country towns are. It was a great highway ; and dealers with every variety of merchandise re- sorted to its fairs. The eyes of Shakspere must always have been open for observation. When he was eleven years old, Elizabeth made her celebrated progress to Lord Leicester's castle of KenUworth, and there he may even have been a witness to some of the princely pleasures of masques and mummeries which were the imperfect utterance of the early drama. At Coventry, too, the ancient mysteries and pageants were still exhibited in the streets, — the last relics of those popular exhibitions with which the Church had striven to fascinate the popular mind, and reduce the most sacred scripture stories into a dramatic represen- tation that most frequently rendered them ridiculous. Nor were these confined to Coventry. The players occasionally found their way to Stratford, and were received there with ready welcome by the magistrates of the burgh, among whom was John Shakspere, the poet's father. Here, therefore, we see the school wherein he studied both nature and art. Rude, indeed, were the dramatic exhibitions witnessed by him there, as he 72 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Stood between his father's knees. But what of that? The dead machmery was all he wanted. He it was who was to put life and soul into it, and teach all times by the simple majesty of truthful nature in every mood. One more scene, however, must be no- ticed ere we quit with young Shakspere these plea- sant scenes. Not far from the old market-town stood, and still stands, Charlecote Park, the seat of that famed old knight. Sir Thomas Lucy. You have all heard the romantic tale of the bold youth who shot the buck in Charlecote Park; and when the stem jus- tice subjected him to legal penalties, and read him a very grave lecture to boot on the heinousness of " driv- ing the deer," like the Percys of Northumberland, in the fine baUad that doubtless was familiar to him, he took his revenge on this " doughty knight" by mak- ing him the hero of another merry ballad. So says tradition, and adds, that such was the wi*ath of Sir Thomas Lucy, young Shakspere was glad to make his way to London, where he retaliated his revenge sevenfold, by makmg of him his Justice Dogbeny. I must crave your patience for one specimen of the poet's retaliation, ere we leave the Avon, and Charle- cote, and all its pleasant nooks, not forgetting the pretty little village of Shotteiy, not a mile from tlie EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 73 town of Stratford, where dwelt Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a substantial yeoman, and the wife of William Shakspere. The foUowing is one of the racy scenes referred to between Justice Dogberry and two gentlemen, in the piece weU entitled " Much Ado ABOUT Nothing " : — Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton I Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? Dogh. Marry, that am I and my partner. Verg. Nay, that's certain ; we have the exhibition to examine. Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be exa- mined ? let them come before master constable. Dogh. Yea, marry, let them come before me.— What is your name, friend ? Bora. Borachio. Dogh. Pray write down, Borachio.— Yours, sirrah ? Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. Dogh. Write down— master gentleman Conrade.— Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves ? Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. Dogh. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you ; but I will go about with him.— Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear, sir; I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none. Dogh. Well, stand aside.— They are both in a tale : Have you writ down— that they are none ? 74 EVEjyiJJGS WITH THE POETS. Sexton. Master constalble, you go not the way to examine; you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. Dogh. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way : — Let the watch come forth : — Masters, I charge you, in the prince's name, accuse these men. 1 Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's brother, was a villain. Dogh. "Write doAvn — prince John a villain : — Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain. Bora. Master constable, — Dogh. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, I promise thee. Sexton. What heard you him say else ? 2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John, for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully. Dogh. Flat burglary, as ever was committed. Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is. Sexton. What else, fellow ? 1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. Dogh. 0 villain ! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. Sexton. What else ? 2 Watch. This is all. Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen av/ay ; Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. — Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato ; I Avill go be- fore, and show him their examination. {ExH. Dogh. Come, let them be opinioned. Verg. Let them be in the hands — Con. Off, coxcomb I EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 75 Dogb. My life I where's the sexton ? let him write down the prince's oflScer, coxcomh. Come, bind them: Thod naughty varlet I Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. Bogb. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou not suspect my years ? — 0 that he were here to write me down — an ass ! but, masters, remember that I am an ass ; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass : No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow ; and, which is more, an oflScer ; and, which is more, a householder ; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina ; and one that knows the law, go to ; and a rich fellow enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses ; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him : — Bring him away. 0, that I had been writ down, an ass 1 [Exeunt. Whatever was the reason, Shakspere did proceed to London. Of his doings and his success there you will less care to hear. The associations with the mighty mazes of London scarce permit us to reckon it as among the haunts of the poet. Neither shall we follow the more indefinite wanderings which zealous biographers trace out for him, — carrying him off to Scotland, and making him there enact his own dramas before king James, and study the scenery and tradi- tions that formed the groundwork of the magnificent tragedy of Macbeth. All this may be, but there ir^ little chance now that proof of its truth will ever be discovered. 76 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. There is one spot in London, however, associated with the names of many poets,— that is the Mennaid Tavern in Fleet Street, where Shakspere, Ben Jon- son, Beaumont, Fletcher, and a host of wits and poets of the Elizabethan era, were wont to meet ac- cording to the fashion of the age. Ben Jonson's early years were spent in no such pleasant scenes and happy circumstances as those that environed "gentle Shakspere," when spruaging up to vigorous manhood amid the rural shelters of Warwickshire. He was sprung from the Johnstons of Aimandale, a hardy race of moss-troopers on the Scottish borders. But his grandfather crossed the Border, and entered into the service of Hemy VIII., and his father, who died before the poet's bhth, lost | the estate that had been the reward of faithful ser- | vice rendered to Henry, under the persecution of his j daughter Queen Mary. The widow, thus left m po- verty, became the wife of a brickmaker, and Benja- min was devoted to the same humble occupation. He had obtained an exhibition to Cambridge, but it was insufficient to provide for his humble wants. The brick-field, it may readUy be believed, was an uncon- genial occupation to one thus driven by stern necessity from the intellectual labours of the university. He EVENIJ^GS WITH THE POETS. 77 accordingly repaired as a volunteer to the army then m Flanders, and in the campaign durmg which he served he distinguished himself, though yet a strip- hng, by killmg an enemy in single combat in the pre- sence of both armies. You do not expect me, how- ever, to detam you with a biographical narrative of the poet. Of his long residence in London, where he is said by some of his biographers to have owed to the generous friendship of Shakspere his first rescue from obscm-ity, or of his brief sojourn at Paris iB 1613, I shall not now speak, but proceed at once to the famed journey to Scotland m 1617, where he ac- quhed the friendship of Drummond, and interchanged with him the dehghts of social and intellectual inter- course amid the magnificent scenery of the Scottish poet's retreat at Hawthornden. The lovely scenery that adorns the river Esk is probably as familiar to most of you as the sweet land- scapes through which the Avon flows, though two streams could scarcely be found more diverse in cha- racter than the " soft flowing" .river of Stratford, whiding hke a thread of silver thi-ough the golden plains of Warwickshire, rich in the promise of an English harvest-home ; and the boisterous river Esk, now tumbling and dashing along between steep cliffs. 78 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. and foaming over its rocky bed far down in the glen, where the gnarled oak and bkch cluster over it, and soften its noisy play until it seems the mm-mm' of sweet music. Here was the birthplace of Drummond : here, too, the scene of his early andhopeless love. The young poet fixed liis affections on a lady with whom he was wont to ramble along the banks of the Esk, and was just on the eve of being manned to her, when her sudden death overturned aU his hopes, and left him a prey to settled melancholy. He forsook at length the scenes connected' with such sad and pam- ful associations, and wandered on the continent for years. He returned, however,- to his lovely birth- place, and once more sought peace and happmess at home. Then was the scene of those interesting con- versations held In the bower, Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade. Drummond married at length a daughter of the Logans of Restabig, an ancient Scottish family. The lady was fair, and the poet was fu-st attracted to her by a fancied resemblance to his former mistress, to whom he appears to have been most warmly attached. He repaired the family mansion at Hawthornden, an BYENINGS WITH THE POETS. 79 ancient castellated abode, ■wMcli still stands on tlie edge of lofty cliffs, looking down into the den, in which tlie Esk murmurs over its rocky bed. He had indeed prepared his mind for the sweets of domestic retirement, after the disappointments and sorrows of his earher years ; and, in token of this, he decorated the old mansion with an inscription, importing his hopes of resting there in honourable ease. His anti- cipations might perhaps assume the form expressed by a recent writer in reference to the same lovely scenes : — If bliss Can snatch new ecstacies from former sorrows, They shall be ours : upon the wooded banks That hang gay garlands o'er the murmuring Esk We'll build our marriage bower ; and life shall pass Like the blue wave that gladly leaps below, Sharing and adding beauty. Embosomed 'mid the stillness of that home, Unbroken, save when songsters from each bush Startle the echoes with their notes of joy, Or listening to the voice of rippling waters Pure and as innocent as thee, my love ! There shall we sit, nor hear far din of war, Nor know of sorrow, but with power to heal, And make its happiness as bright as ours I If tears are there, 'twill be but gladness' tongue, 80 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. When silence speaks the eloquence of joy I If fear,-'twill be but full o'ercliarging love, Swift to be laughed away 1 The times, alas! in which the poetUved were little smtedforUie aecomplishment of such anticipations. He was speedily involyed in all the troubles of the great civil war, and is believed to have died of gi'ief on hearing of the execution of his royal master, Charles I. The last days of his friend Ben Jonson are even more painful and sad. His meaa>s were lat- terly precariously supplied, and imprudently expended. Neglect and improvidence together strewed many tho-ns on his closing journey; yet he was never eft without friends, foremost among whom is the Earl ol Newcastle, whom the poet thanks for his g^erous bounties, which had " fallen like the dew of Heaven on his necessities." Turn we with more pleasure to the last days of England's gi-eat poet, William Shakspere. In 1596 his only son died, and was buried in the old chancel of Stratford ch^ch. It was, doubtless, a bitter stroke to the poet, but he had daughters left to him, Ms wife stm lived there, his mother and father also yet re- mained to share with him his gr-iefs and rejoice m h.s prosperity. He purchased there a valuable estate EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 81 with the means that had rewarded the labours of his genius, and there he retired, honoured and esteemed, to spend his closing days in the same scenes where he had passed his happy youth. Who has not heard of Shakspere's garden and his mulberry-tree,— of the scene of Hs birth in the old timber dwelling in Hen- ley Street, which stUl remains, and has been recently purchased by the nation, as a valued memorial of England's gi-eatest poet,-and of tho scene where his honoured dust is laid, resting in the hope devoutly expressed by him in the opening sentence of his will, written only a month before his death I commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hopmg, and assuredly believing, through the only merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be made partaker of Hfe everlasting " BEAUTIES OE SHAKSPERE, BEN JONSON, AND DRUMMOND OP HAWTHOENDEN. BEAUTIES OF SHAKSPERE, BEI^ JOM AID DRUMMOm VANITY OF POWER. For within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps death his court : and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ; Allowing him a breath, a Httle scene, To monarchise, he fear'd, and kill with looks ; Infusing him with self and vain conceit,— As if this flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable ; and humour'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and— farewell king! Cover your heads, and mock aot flesh and blood With solemn reverence ; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty. 86 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. For you have but mistook me all this while : 1 live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, Need friends : subjected thus, How can you say to me I am a king ? APOSTEOPHE TO SLEEP. Sleep, gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighter thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids Jew n, And steep my senses in forgetfulness ! Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber ; Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody I 0 thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile. In loathsome beds ; and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common 'larmn bell ? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy masi Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge ; And in the visitation of the winds. Who take the ruffian billows by the top. Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds, That, vnth. the hurly, death itself awakes ? Canst thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy, in an hour so rude ; And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances, and means to hoot. Deny it to a king 1 DREAMS. 0, then, I see, queen Mab hath been with yo She is the faries' midwife ; and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they he asleep : Her waggon spokes made of long spinners' legs The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams : Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; Her waggoner, a small grey coated $>uat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick 'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut. Made by the joinei squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makera. 88 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovei-s' brains, and then they dream of love : On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees : O'er ladies' lips, who sti-aight on kisses dream ; Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep. Then dreams he of another benefice ; Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck. And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats. Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear ; at which he starts, and wakes • And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab, That plats the manes of horses in the night ; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs. Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes. This is the hag, when maids lie on their back. That presses them, and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage. This, this is she — Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace ; Thou talk'st of nothing. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 89 True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; Which is as thin of substance as the air ; And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes, Even now, the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, , Turnmg his face to the dew-dropping south. LOVERS Enter Romeo. Rom. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.- [Juliet appears above, at a window. But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks It is the east, and Juliet is the sun !- Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she : Be not her maid, since she is envious : Her vestal hvery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it ; cast it ofF.-- It is my lady; 0, it is my love : 0, that she knew she were I— She speaks, yet she says nothing ; what of that . 90 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Her eye discoiirses, I will answer it. — I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head : The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp ; her eye in heaven Would through the aiiy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand, 0, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek. Jul. Ah, me ! Rom. She speaks : — 0, speak again, bright angel 1 for thou art As glorious to tliis night, being o'er my head. As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals, that fall back' to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds. And sails upon the bosom of the air. Jul. 0 Romeo, Romeo I wherefore art thou Romeo Deny thy father, and refuse thy name : Or, if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love. And I'll no longer be a Capulot, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. RELUCTANCE OF LOYEES TO PART. JULIET'S CnA:HBEIl. Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east ; Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops: I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I : It is some meteor that the sun exhales. To be to th6e this night a torch-bearer. And light thee on the way to Mantua ; Therefore stay, yet, thou need'st not to be gone. Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. rU say yon gray is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vanity heaven so high above our heads : I have more care to stay than will to go ;— 92 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so ,— How is't, my soul ? let's talk, it is not day. fell Jlonsom SONa OF HESPEEUS. Queen and limitress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep ; Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare thyself to interpose. Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did jIosp . Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellentlybright. EVENINaS WITH THE POETS. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever ; Thou that mak'st a day of night. Goddess excellently bright. SONG. Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presumed. Though art's hid causes are not found All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face. That makes simplicity a grace : Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than ail the adulteries of art : They strike my eyes, but not my heart. 94 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. SONG. So beauty on the waters' stood, When love had severed earth from flood ? So when he parted air from fire, He did with concord all inspire ! And then a motion he them taught, That elder than himself was thought.- Which thought was yet the child of earth, For love is elder than his birth. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H. Would 'sT thou hear what man can say In a little 1 reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die ; Which in life did harbour give To more virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault. Leave it buried in the vault. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. One name was Elizabetlij The other let it sleep with death : Fitter, where it died, to tell. Than that it lived at all. Farewell. SONG TO CELIA. Drink to me, only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine : Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth vme, Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me : Since when it grows, and smells, 1 swear. Not of itself but thee. 96 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. ITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OP PEMBROKE. Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother Death I ere thou hast slain another Learn'd and fah-, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. SONNET. 0 Fate conjured to pour your worst on me ! 0 rigorous rigour which doth all confound ! With cruel hands ye have cut down the tree, And fruit with leaves have scattered on the gi'ound- Pi. little space of earth my love doth bound: EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. 97 That beauty which did luiae it to the sky, Ttirn'd in disdained dust now low doth lie, Deaf to my plaints and senseless of my wound. Ah ! did I live for this 1 ah ! did I love ? And was't for this (fierce powers) she did excel — That ere she well the sweets of life did prove, She should (too dear a guest) with darkness dwell! Weak influence of heaven ! what fair is wrought, Falls in the prime, and passeth like a thought. CONSOLATION FOE THE DEATH OF HIS MISTRESS. If she be dead, then she of loathsome days Hath past the line, whose length but loss bewrays ; Then she hath left this filthy stage of care, Where pleasures seldom, woe doth still repair. For all the pleasures which it doth contain, Not countervail the smallest minute's pain. And tell me, thou who dost so much admire This little vapour, this poor spark of fire. Which life is called, what doth it thee bequeath. But some few years which birth draws out to death ? Which if thou parallel with lustres run. Or those whose courses are but now begun, In days great number they shall less appear, 7 98 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Than with the sea when matched is a tear. But why should'st thou here longer wish to be ? One year doth serve all nature's pomp to see. Nay, even one day and night : This moon, that sun, Those lesser fires about this round which run, Be but the same, which under Saturn's reign, Did the serpentine seasons interchain. How oft doth life grow less with living long ? And what excelleth but what dieth young ? For age, which all abhor (yet would embrace,) Doth make the mind as wrinkled as the face. Then leave laments, and think thou didst not live Laws to that first eternal cause to give, But to obey those laws which He hath given. And bow unto the just decrees of Heaven, Which cannot err, whatever foggy mists Do blind men in these subkmary lists. But what if she for whom thou spends those groans, And wastes thy life's dear torch in ruthful moans, She, for whose sake thou hat'st the joyful light, Courts solitary shades and irksome night. Dost live ? Ah ! if thou canst, through tears, a space Lift thy dimmed lights, and look upon this face ; Look if those eyes which, fool, thou didst adore. Shine not more bright than they were wont before. Look if those roses death could aught impair, Those roses which thou once said'st were so fair ; EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. 99 And if these locks have lost aught of that gold, Which once they had when them thou didst behold. I live, and happy hve, but thou art dead, And still Shalt be, till thou be like me made. THE LARK. Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care> Well pleased with deUghts which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling floN\ crs To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers. Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yea, and to angel's lays. tnenings ©ill) tl)e foets. THIRD EVENING. J THIRD EYENING. All risk of the oft experienced evils of a disputed succession having been removed from the little com- monwealth of Deriey Manor by the wise decision of Mrs. Howard, which secured to the last holder of the crown and sceptre the selection of a successor, the subjects of King Alfred the Second followed hun with smiles and bantering jests, not unmingled with joyous shouts of meniment and dehght from the younger members of this body politic, as the whole assembled guests proceeded once more to the Library to witness the abdication of another sovereign, and to welcome his successor to the throne. The looks of bashful eagerness, and youthful glee, mingled with the assumption of an air of indifference among some of the older of his subjects, made even King Alfred smile, as he looked down on the gi-oup around him, full as he was with the importance of the 104 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. last kingly duty devolving iipon him, in the choice of a successor. After watching their varied expressions, while he held the holly crown suspended in his hand, till some even of the most staid were forced to yield their grave looks to a blushing smile, King Alfred stept from his throne, and passing through the fore- most group, he crowned, as Queen of the evening, Ellen Hepburn, a blushing httle maiden who had come all ' the way from Scotland to meet her cousins at Derley i Park. The discrowned monarch conducted his suc- cessor, with an air of the most formal gallantry and condescension, to the throne, and dropping on his knee he made obeisance to her, amid the shouts of her applauding subjects. Order being restored after a time, Queen EUen thus invited the attention of her subjects, during her evening's reign, to the character and genius of Milton, and some other names among later poets of England. tl)f €l)arafUr ttub (Btnm of ^iiUn. It would be a needless occupation of time to detam you with any lengthened narrative of the history of England's great Christian poet. Unlike the bard ol Avon, the name of Milton is associated with no romantic scene of English landscape, as the birth- EVENINGS WITH THE POETS, 105 place of the great poet of the commonwealth. His father, a man of ability, and a scrivener by profession, had been disinherited by his parents in consequence of his renouncing the Romish faith, to which they were bigotedly attached. At his house in Bread Street, in the city of London, John Milton was born on the 9th of December 1608. From his earliest years Milton was characterised by docility and the strongestevidencesof superior inteUect. He proceeded to Christ's Church College, Cambridge, at the age of fifteen, and within the two foUowing years he com- posed some of those early poems which mduced an eminent critic to say of him,—" Milton's writings show him to have been a man from his childhood." After taking his degree of Master of Arts, he returned home and spent some delightful years in study and poetic reverie. From his father he inherited a pas- sionate love of music, which long afterwards solaced hun, when shut out for ever by his bhndness from free intercourse with the great intellects of past ages. During this happy period Milton composed the mask of Comus, a splendid evidence of poetic genius. It was represented by the Lady Alice Egerton and her brothers, the younger members of the Earl of Bridge- water's family, at Ludlow Castle, on Michaelmas Eve lOG EVEXINGS WITH THE POETS. 1634. The story is said to have been suggested to Milton by the Lady Alice chancing to loose her way in the forest of Haywood, as she was returning from a distance to meet her father, the Earl of Bridgewater, on his takhig up his residence at Ludlow Castle as president of Wales. From this beautiful mask, added Queen Ellen, I shall select some of the read- ings for this evening; and as I suppose you to be all familiar with the great poet's life, with his share in the memorable events of Charles I.'s reign, and of the Commonwealth that succeeded, I shaU only detain you from his own writings while I remind you of one or two striking incidents of his life. When Charles II. was restored to his father's throne, soon after the death of Cromwell, Milton became a prominent object of dishke to the royalist adherents of the new king having been Latin Secretary to the Protector. He had to hide himself for a time m St. Bartholomew's close, in the house of a friend, and when the search for him became keener, and his enemies more vin- dictive, his friends spread a report that he was dead, and, assembling in mournful procession, followed his supposed corpse to the grave. King Charles, who, with all his faults, was famous for mirth, on learning of the trick that had been played on his own zealous EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 107 partizans, was greatly amused, and commended his policy, as he said, " in escaping death, by a seasonable show of dying!" One other story I shall relate, which, while it shows the heroic character of Milton, exhibits Charles II., and his brother James, who afterward* succeeded to his crown, in a very characteristic light. The account is related as follows :— The Duke of York, afterward James II., expressed one day to the King, his brother, a great desire to see old Milton, of whom he had heard so much. The King replied that he had not the slightest objection to the Duke's satisfying his curiosity; and, accordingly, soon aftei-wards, James went privately to Milton's house, where, after an in- troduction, which explained to the old republican the rank of his guest, a free conversation ensued be- tween these very dissimilar and discordant characters. In the course, however, of the conversation, the Duke asked Milton whether he did not regard the loss of his eye- sight as a judgment inflicted on him for what he had written against the late King. Milton's reply was to this effect : " If your Highness thinks thai the calamities which befall us here are indications of the ™th of Heaven, in what manner are we to account for the fate of the King, your father'/ 108 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. The displeasure of Heaven must, upon this sup- position, have been much greater against him than me — ^for I have only lost my eyes, but he lost bis head." Much discomposed by this answer the Duke speedily took his leave. On his return to court, the first words which he spoke to the Kmg were, " Brother, you are greatly to blame that you don't have that old rogue ^lilton hanged." " ^Yhy, what is the matter, James ? Have you seen Milton ?" " Yes," answered the Duke, "I have seen him." "Well," said the King, " in what condition did you find him ?" " Con- dition? why he is old and very poor." "Old and poor ! well, and he is blind, too, is he not ?" " Yes, blind as a beetle." " W hy, then," observed the King, " you are a fool, James, to have him hanged as a punishment : to hang him wiU be doing him a ser- vice ; it will be taking him out of his miseries. No — ^if he is old, poor, and blind, he is miserable enough; in aU conscience; let him Kve." The story very curiously illustrates the characters of all engaged m the occurrence;— Charles, with the gay indifi'erence that gamed him the title of tlie Merry T^Ionarch; James, with the vindictive harshness that enabled him to preside unmoved at the tortures of the Covenanters ; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 109 and Milton, calm and dignified, in conscious innocence and true greatness. Milton died at the age of sixty-six. His noble dust rests in tlie church of St. Giles, Cripplegate. His poems delighted his own age, and still remain un- equalled by those of any successor. His name is reckoned one among the few truly great benefactors of mankind. The next great English poet regarding whom I shall give you some little account is |0pe. This brilliant wit and eminent poet was born in Lombard Street, London, on the 21st (or 22d as some think) May, 1688,— about six months before the landing in England of the Prince of Orange. His parents were both of the Roman Catholic persuasion,— his father by conversion while living at Lisbon, and his mother by hereditary faith. His paternal grandfather was a clergyman of the Church of England, and was settled in Hampshire. His mother was a daughter of William Turner, Esq., of York, and had been previously married to a Mr. Rackett. His father was an extensive linen-draper in Lombard Street, where he carried on business with such success, that he was enabled to retire (having amassed some twenty thousand pounds), in the first instance to Kensington, and subsequently to Binfield, Windsor Forest. Pope, 110 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. ■who was an uncommonly delicate child, received his first lessons in reading from an aunt. At eight years of age he was placed under the care of one Banister, the family priest, from whom he received the rudiments of Greek and Latin together. Next he was placed at a celebrated Catholic Seminary at Twyford, near Win- chester. His precocious powers of satire, however, in- terfered with his continuance here, for having written a smart lampoon upon his teacher, he was subjected to cor- poral punishment, and this led to his being removed to another school, kept by one Deane, first at Mary-le-bone, and afterwards at Hyde Park Corner. He was taken to Binfield, to reside with his parents, about the age of twelve ; and there again he was put under the care of a priest. He very early contracted a taste for reading and study ; and, indeed, between the years of thirteen and nineteen he may be said to have educated himself. He himself informs us that during that time he taught himself Latin, French, and Greek, besides going through the best critics ; almost all the English, French, and Latin poets of any name ; the minor Greek poets, together witli Homer, and some of the greater Greek poets, in the original ; and Tasso and Ariosto among the Italians, in translations. Among the English writers his great favourite was Dry den, probably because his genius was somewhat akin to his own. He adopted him as his model, and made a constant study of his j EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Ill works. His enthusiasm, indeed, led him, when a boy of about twelve years of age, to seek to be conducted to Will's Cofiee-house, Dryden's favourite resort, that he might have the satisfaction of looking upon the counte- nance of one whom he so highly admired. His faculties were developed at an unusually early period. While he was not more than twelve, he — " Lisped in numbers, for the numbers came,"— his " Ode to Solitude" having been written at that tender age, and several other pieces besides. His study at this time so materially impaired his health, that in all probability his life would have fallen a sacrifice had it not been for the sagacious and friendly interference of the Abbe Southcote, in London, who, immediately on hearing from the poet the state of his health, repaired to Dr. RatclifFe to solicit his advice, explaining to him carefully ail the symptoms of the case. He set out forthwith to Windsor with the doctor's instructions, which were mainly to the effect that the invalid should discontinue his studies for a time, and should betake himself daily to exercise on horseback. This salutary advice was scrupulously attended to by Pope, and he received his reward in the speedy restora- tion of his health. While residing in Windsor Forest he formed the acquaintance of Sir William Turnbuli, who introduced him to Wycherley. He produced his 112 EYEXTXGS WITH THE POETS. celebrated "Essay on Criticism" when he was, as is supposed, about twenty years o^ age. In 1711 this essay was published, anonymously at first. Its sale was slow, but is reported to have received a great im- pulse from the circumstance of the author having called at the shop of the publisher, and despatched copies of the work to the most eminent critics and patrons of literature in town. The success of the work excited the envy of Dennis, a poet and player of the time of some considerable name. The subtle shafts of Pope, however, proved rather too much for the boisterous play-wright, and causing him to lose the command of his temper, left him only second in the combat. In the same year he published, also anonymously, his~ " Rape of the Lock." The following year he made the acquaintance of Addison, an acquaintanceship which promised well in the beginning, but was afterwards marred by a combina- tion of circumstances which it is not neces:sary to enu- merate here. The " Windsor Forest," and " Ode on St. Ciciha's Day," were published in 1713. In 1715 his "Ihad" was published, and the succe*ss of the work improved his circumstances to such a degree, that he persuaded his fatlier to dispose of the small estate of Binfield, and in March of that year he, along with his parents, took up his abode at Twickenham, the place most intimately associated with his name. He purcliased a lease of a villa there, on the banks of the Thames : in m EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 113 which villa he continued to live to the end of his days. He lost his father, who died suddenly in November 1717, in the seventy-fifth year of his age. This event afiected him deeply, and suspended his literary labours for a time. The property which he inherited from his father, together with the fruit of his own literary labours, raised him to such independence of means, that he proceeded to improve on a large scale his beautiful villa at Twickenham. The grotto in which he took such delight fortunately remains as an interesting me- mento of the poet ; but it is much to be regretted that the mansion which he built should have fallen into Vandal hands, and been demolished. In 1720 the two concluding volumes of the " Iliad," the fifth and sixth, were given to the world. The first three volumes of the " Odyssey" were published in 1725, and in the fol- lowing year the fourth and fifth, which completed the work. He was visited by Swift in 1726, who took up his residence with him at Twickenham. The party was also enlivened by the presence of Gay. It is scarcely necessary to follow the poet in the detail of his numer- ous subsequent works. The " Dunciad," the " Epistle on Taste," addressed to Lord Burlington, th-e " Essay on Man," and many other productions, were given to the world, with greater or less acceptance and success. After a long and prolific literary career, his health at last began to give signs of decay by violent headaches 8 114 EYENINGS "WITH THE POETS. and other kindred disorders. He died on the 30th of l\Iay, 1744, about eleven o'clock at night, yielding his breath so imperceptibly, it is said, that the exact mo- ment of his departure was not marked by his attend- ants. Considering the great weakness of his frame during by far the greater part of his life, his industry was something altogether remarkable. Such was that weakness, indeed, that after middle life he required assistance both in undressing for bed and in rising from it. He was not free from that occasional fretfulness and peevishness of temper common to confined valetu- dinarians. He had, however, many excellent qualities as a man and a friend ; and his conduct and feeling as a son were beyond all praise. His devotedness to both his parents, and especially to his mother, was exemplary in the highest degi-ee. As a poet, he could not lay claim to the faculty of invention in an eminent degree, although the "Rape of the Lock," and the " Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard," show that he was not destitute of that quality. His principal merit, however, lay in the lucid arrangement of his subject,— condensation of thought and expression —a subtle and exquisite fancy lighting up his page with a variety and brilliancy of illustration which Avere fascinating in the highest degree. The followiug are the concluding remarks of a judi- cious and able biographer :— EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 115 " Pope formed his style on that of Dry den. He has less enthusiasm, less majesty, less force of thought, than his great model; but he has more delicacy of feeling, more refinement, and more correctness. If he never soared to the height which Pryden reached when ' the full burst of inspiration came,' he never sinks so low as his master ofttimes fell. While soothed by the ex- quisitely sweet, but somewhat monotonous, couplets of Pope, we occasionally long for the bolder and more varied music of Dryden's lines." tl)0mson. Though substantially an English poet, Thomson was in reality a native of Scotland, having been born in the parish of Ednam, in Roxburghshire, on the 11th of September, 1700, of which parish his father was minister. He received the early part of his education at Jedburgh, and was thence removed to Edinburgh, with the view of being educated for the Church. His very poetical style, however, was reckoned by the professor of the day to be not at all in accordance with the functions of the ministry; and he was led to the conclusion, it is said, that, in order to find scope and acceptance for his natural tendencies, he must launch forth on the " wide sea" of London. As might have been expected, he had cc.fisiderable difficulties to encounter there before he 116 ETEiVINGS WITH THE POETS. could secure for himself a comfortable footing. Industry and perseverance, however, prevailed, — he had written himself into fame ; and, by the kindness of his friend Mr. Lyttleton, had attained a comfortable independence for life, by a sinecure appointment worth £300 a-year. This, added to a pension which he had previously re- ceived from the Prince of Wales of £100 a-year, might have enabled him to enjoy the autumn of his life in serene repose. But, alas ! it was not long granted him to possess it ; for taking cold in an aquatic excursion between Kew and London, fever supervened and cut him off, in August 1748 — ^that is, before he had attained his fiftieth year. His favourite residence was at Rose- dale House, Richmond ; his familiarity with the beauti- ful scenery of that neighbourhood being easily gathered from his works. His description of the view from Rich- mond Hill is one of the most beautiful, elaborate, and correct instances of word-painting— of literary photo- graphy — which we possess, while there are many other passages which make it abundantly evident that the characteristics of Richmond scenery had taken full pos- session of his soul, and had left their impress there. Objections have been taken to his principal work, <^ The Seasons," on the ground of the monotonous pomposity of the style, and the frequent episodical digressions Avhich they contain; but such objections as these, if indeed the latter is an objection at all, which might 1 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS, 117 well be disputed, weigh little against the general excel- lence of the work, and have certainly had no power to abate its popularity, which has proved both permanent and wide. His love of nature was a ruling passion with him ; and his pictures of scenery and of rural life are so exquisite and true, that they have gained for him the name of the " Claude" of poets. This was his great faculty, and he seems for the most part to have been aware of it. He says,— " I, solitary, court The inspiring breeze, and meditate tlie book Of Nature, ever open ; aiming tlience, Warm from tlie heart, to pour the moral soug." He attempted the dramatic form, indeed, but with in- different success. He wanted the strong fire and energy for the depicting of the passions, and his tragedies are cold, vapid, and declamatory. His allegory of the " Castle of Indolence" is in a much happier vein, and is probably the most strictly poetical of his produc- tions. His national song of " Rule Britannia" is also a highly successful effort, rising to a note more grand and stirring than might have been expected from a bard of generally such gentle mien. His only prose work was an Essay on Descriptive Poetry; which was at first adver- tised as a separate production, but was printed in the form of a preface to the second edition of his " Winter." The aim of the essay was to show that poetry should be 118 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. directed to higher purposes than those which generally engaged it. The arguments are lucidly stated and applied. In personal appearance he was stout, and above the middle size. His eye lighted up in conversa- tion with considerable fire and expression, though usually his countenance was dull. In the inner circle of his friends (and few men had the faculty of so attaching friends to him as he had) he was not without playful sallies of wit, and a flow of genial humour. He was undoubtedly one of the most honourable and amiable of men, and from his personal character, as well as from his works, he will long live in the heart and memory of his countrymen. From Thomson we pass by a natural and easy transition to his contemporary, Thomas Gray. He was some fifteen years younger than the former, having been born in Corn- hill, London, the 26th December 1716. His father was Mr. Philip Gray, a respectable citizen and money-scrivener in London. His mother's name was Dorothy Antrobus ; and of the kindness and self-sacrificing devotedness of this parent he cherished the most tender remembrance, insomuch that his friend and biogi'apher, Mason, informs us that " he seldom mentioned his mother without a sigh." He received his education at Eton College, and EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 119 was admitted as a pensioner at Cambridge in 17:^4, in his nineteenth year. At Eton he became acquainted with Horace Walpole, whom he was persuaded to accompany in his travels through France and Italy. From his letters while on this tour it is evident that he was a thoughtful and diligent traveller. Architecture and art, in all its departments, engaged his attention, while the language and customs of the countiy were also a subject of continual attention and study. It was during these .travels, and while they were together at Reggio, that an unfortunate difference arose between him and Walpole, which ended in a serious and lasting alienation. The merits of this quarrel have been greatly canvassed, and the genei'al impression is that the principal fault lay with Walpole,— which, indeed, he himself seems to have admitted. While receiving his education at Eton, also. Gray contracted a very strong and tender friendship with Mr. Richard West, son of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland,— a friend- ship which was only interrupted by the premature death of West. This event had a saddening effect upon the mind of the poet ; of which, perhaps, the shadow may be traced in his touching Elegy. The principal residence of Gray, from 1742 till the day of his death in 1771, was at Cambridge ; for two or three years— namely, from 1759 to 1762— he lived in London, being desirous of having easier access to the British Museum. In 1765 120 EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. lie made a visit to Scotland, chiefly for the sake of his health, when he passed through Edinburgh and Perth ; and after a temporary residence at Glammis Castle, the seat of Lord Strathmore, he proceeded north to Aberdeen, where he made the acquaintance of Dr. Beattie. In 1768 he received an appointment from the Crown to the Pro- fessorship of Modern History in the University of Cam- bridge, with a salary of £400 a-year,— a most necessary and therefore acceptable addition to his income, which up to this period had been very small. About the year 1747 ] he was introduced to Mason, afterwards his biographer ; and during the greater part of his life he was enthusias- tically attached to classic pursuits,— which, no doubt, had a powerful effect in giving that classic elegance and polish to his productions by which they are distinguished in so eminent a degree. His residence at Cambridge, by bringing within his reach such valuable libraries, contributed largely to the cultivation of these studies, if indeed it was not chosen on that very account. He probably read too much, and gave himself up to inde- pendent thought and composition too little. This, together with his extreme fastidiousness as to polish and finish, in great measure accounts for the comparative scantiness of the works which he has left behind him. His " Elegy written in a Country Churchyard" is the most universally popular of all his productions, and possesses a tenderness of pathos and a rhythmical beauty EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 121 of cadence which carry it iiTesistibly to the heart of every reader. It is one of those touches of nature which make the whole world kin, while the " setting" is that of the most subtle and consummate art. Its popularity may be estimated by the fact that it passed through eleven editions in a very short time, and was translated into Latin in the first instance by Ansty and Roberts, and afterwards by Lloyd. This elegant poet, and highly amiable and excellent man, died in 1771 ; and in 1775 a quarto edition of his poems, with memoirs of his life and writings, were published by Mason. There have been later and more valuable editions,— that by Mathias, London, in 1814, and that by Milford, London, in 1816. The Rev. Mr. Temple, rector of Mainhead, Devonshire, has pronounced a high though just eulogium on the character of Gray, which is embodied in Mason's edition of his works. There was a flush as of proud triumph on the enthu- siastic face of the young Queen Ellen, as she opened the volumes before her and proceeded to read aloud some specimens of the various poets whom she had described. BEAUTIES OF MILTON, POPE, THOMSOx\\ AND GEAY, I I BEAUTIES OF MILTOi^, POPE, THOMSON, AiND GRAY. ADDRESS TO LI^HT. Hail, holy Light ! offspring of heaven, first-born 1 Or of the eternal co-eternal beam ! May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity ; dwelt then in thee. Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! Or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun. Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep. Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd In that obscure soiourn ; while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne, With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, I sung of chaos, and eternal night ; 126 EVENIxXGS WITH THE POETS. Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare ! Thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovereign vital lamp : but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the muses haunt, Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song : but chief Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath. That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget Those other two equal'd with me in fate, (So were I equal'd with them in renown I) Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides : And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year Seasons return ; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or mom. Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine : But clouds instead, and evor-during dai'k Surrounds me : from the cheerful ways of men EVENIKGS Y/ITH. THE POETS. 127 Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou, celestial light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate ; there plant eyes ; all mist from thence Purge, and disperse ; that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. EVE'S EEMEMBRANCE OF HEE CREATION. That day I oft remember, when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed Under a shade, on flowers ; much wondering where, And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. Not distant far from thence, a murmuring sound Of waters issued from a cave, and spread Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved. Pure as the expanse of heaven : I thither went, "W ith unexperienced thought, and laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky. As I bent down to look, just opposite A shape within the watery gleam appear'd. Bending to look on me : I started back ; It started back : but pleased I soon return'd ; 128 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Pleased it return'd as soon ; with answering looks Of sympathy and love : there I had fix'd Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, Had not a voice thus warn'd me, « What thou seest, What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself ; With thee it came, and goes : but, follow me, And I will bring thee where no shadow stays Thy coming, and thy soft embraces ; he Whose image thou art ; him thou shalt enjoy Inseparably thine, to him shalt bear Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call'd Mother of human race." What could I do, But follow straight, invisibly thus led. Till I espied thee 1 fair indeed, and tall. Under a plantain ; yet, methought, less fair. Less winning soft, less amiably mild. Than that smooth watery im.ge. Back 1 turn'd ; Thou following criedst aloud, Keturn fair Eve ; Whom mest thou? whom thou fiiest, of him thou art, His flesh, his bone ; to give thee being I lent Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, Substantial life, to have thee by my side Henceforth an individual solace dear : Part of my soul, I seek thee ; and thee claim, My other half ! With that thy gentle hand Seized mine : I yielded : and from that time see How beauty is excell'd by manly grace. And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. ETENINGS WITH THE POETS. 129 DEPARTURE FROM EDEN. They both descend the hill: Descended, Adam to the bower, where Eve Lay sleeping, ran before; but found her waked; And thus with words not sad she him received: Whence thou return'st, and whither went'st, I know; For God is also in sleep; and dreams advise, Which he hath sent propitious, some great good Presaging, since with sorrow and heart's distress Wearied I fell asleep; but now lead on; In me is no delay; with thee to go. Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, Is to go hence unwilling: thou to me Art all things under heaven, all places thou; Who for my wilfvil crime art banish'd hence This further consolation yet secure I carry hence; though all by me is lost, Such favour I unworthy am vouchsafed. By me the Promised Seed shall all restore. So spake our mother Eve ; and Adam heard Well pleased, but answered not: for now, too nigh The archangel stood; and from the other hill To their fix'd station, all in bright array, The cherubim descended; on the ground Gliding meteorous, as evening mist. Risen from a river, o'er the marish glides, 9 130 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. And gathers ground fast at the labourer's heel, Homeward returning. High in front advanced, The brandish'd sword of God before them blazed; Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat, And vapours as the Libyan air adust, Began to parch that temperate clime: whereat In either hand the hastening angel caught Our lingering parents; and to the eastern gate Led them direct ; and down the cliff as fast, To the subjected plain; then disappear'd. They looking back, all the eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late their happy seat ! Waved over by that flammg brand; the gate With dreadful faces throng'd, and fiery arms. Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon* The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They, hand in hand, with wandering steps, and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way. VIRTUE. Virtue conld see to do what Virtue would By her own radiant light, though sun and moon Were in the flat sea sunk; and wisdom's self Oft seeks in sweet retired solitude To plume her feathers and let grow her wings. That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impaii'ed. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 131 FROM COMUS. Comus, — Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchaifting ravishment ? Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence. How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence, through the empty -vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven-down Of darkness till it smiled ! I have oft heard My mother Circe with the sirens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, Culling their potent herbs, and baleful drugs, Who as they sung, would take the prison'd soul. And lap it in Elysium: Sylla wept. And chid her barking waves into attention. And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause : Yet they in pleasing slumber lull'd the sense, And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself. But such a sacred and home-felt delight, Such sober certainty of waking bliss 1 never heard till now. — I'll speak to her. And she shall be my queen. — Hail foreign wonder, Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, Unless the goddess that in rural shrine Dwell'st here with Pan or Silvan, by blest song 132 Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. Lady.— ^a,y, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise That is addrest to unattending ears; Not any boast of skill, bi« extreme shift How to regain my sever'd company, Compell'd me to awake the courteous echo To give me answer from her mossy couch. ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me, like Alcestes, from the grave. Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint: Mine, as when washed from spot of child-bed taint, Purification in the old law did save. And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in heaven without restraint. Came vested all in white, pure as her mind ! Her face was veiled ; yet to my fancied sight. Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined So clear, as in no face with more dehght. But, oh ! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back ray night. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 133 ON ATTAINING HIS TWENTY-THIRD YEAR. How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud nor blossom showeth. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near ; And inward ripeness doth much less appear. That some more timely-happy spirits endueth. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so. As ever in my great Task-master's eye. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. [jAdy, that in the prime of earliest youth. Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen. That labour up the hill of heavenly truth; The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, 134 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of hght, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou when the bridegroom, with his feastful friends. Passes to bhss at the mid hour of night. Hast gained thy entrance, vix^gin wise and pure. ON THE LATE MASSACEE IN PIEMONT. Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not : in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moan The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant : that from these may grow A hundred fold, who having learned thy way. Early may fly the Babylonian woe. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 135 fope. FROM ELOISA TO ABELARD. Comb, Abelard ! for what hast thou to dread ? The torch of Venus hurns not for the dead. Nature stands check'd ; religion disapproves ; Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves. Ah, hopeless, lasting flames ! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn. What scenes appear where'er I turn my view ! The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue. Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee ; Thy image steals between my Gfod and me ; Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear ; With every bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll. And swelling organs lift the rising soul. One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,— Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. 136 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. While prostrate here in humble grief I lie^ Kind, virtuous drops just gathering in my eye ; While, praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is opening on my soul : Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art ! Oppose thyself to Heaven,— dispute my heart : Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies ; — Take back that grace, those sorrows and those tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers ; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode ; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God ! No ! fly me, fly me far as pole from pole ! Rise Alps between us ! and whole oceans roll ! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee ! Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign ; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine, Fair eyes and tempting looks (which yet I view !^ Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu ! 0 grace serene ! 0 virtue heavenly fair ! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care ! Fresh-blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky ! And faith, our early immortality ! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest ; Receive and wrap me in eternal ^est ! See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind methinks a spirit calls^ EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 137 And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watch 'd the dying lamp around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. " Come, sister, come !" (it said, or seemed to say), " Thy place is here, sad sister, come away ! Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and prayed,— Love's victim then, though now a fainted maid : :But all is calm in this eternal sleep ; Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep ; Ev'n superstition loses every fear ; For Grod, not man, absolves our frailties here." I come ! I come ! prepare your roseate bowers, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,— Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow : Thou, Abelard ! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day ; See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll; Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul : Ah no !— in sacred vestments mayst thou stand. The hallowed taper trembling in thy hand. Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-loved Eloisa see ! It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the transient roses fly ! Seethe last sparkle languish in my eye ! Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er ; And ev'n my Abelard be loved no more ! 138 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 0 death, all eloquent ! you only prove What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love. Then, too, when fate sliall thy fair frame destroy, (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy), In trance ecstatic may the pangs be drowned. Bright clouds descend, and angels watch tliee round ! From opening skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine ! May one kind gi-ace unite each hapless name. And graft my love immortal on thy fame ! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more. If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads. And drink the falling tears each other sheds ; Then sadly say, with mutual pity moved, " 0 may we never love as these have loved !" From the full choir, when loud hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice ; Amid that scene if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven, One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven. And sure if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, Condemned whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more ; Such if there be, who loves so long, so v/eil. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 139 Let him our sad, our tender story tell ! The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost ; He best can paint them who shall feel them most. THE HiaHEST HAPPINESS TO BE FOUND IN BENEVOLENCE. See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow ! Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know : Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, • The bad must miss ; the good, untaught, will find ; Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through nature, up to nature's (rod; Pursues that chain which links the immense design. Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine ; Sees that no being any bliss can know. But teaches some above and some below ; Learns from this union of the rising whole, The first, last purpose of the human soul ; And kjiows where faith, law, morals, all began, All end, — in love of Grod, and love of man. For him alone hope leads from goal to goal. And opens still, and opens on his soul ; Till length en'd onto faith, and unconfined, It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. He sees why Nature plants in man alone Fope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown : 140 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind Are given in vain, but what they seek they find). Wise is her present : she connects in this His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss ; At once his own bright prospect to be blest. And strongest motive to assist the rest. Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine, Grives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine. Is this too little for the boundless heart 1 Extend it, — let thy enemies have part ; Grrasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense. In one close system of benevolence : Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, And height of bliss but height of charity. Grod loves from whole to parts ; but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds. Another still, and still another spreads : Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace ; His country next ; and next all human race ; Wide and, more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind Take every creature in, of every kind Earth smiles around, v/ith boundless bounty blest, And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. Come, then, my friend ! my genius ! come along ; Oh, master of the poet and the song ! And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 141 To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, Teach me, like thee, in varions nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; Formed, by thy converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease. Intent to reason, or polite to please. Oh ! while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame. Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale 1 When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes. Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ] That, urged by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart ; For wit's false mirror held up nature's light ; Showed erring pride. Whatever is, is right; That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; That true self-love and social are the same ; That virtue only makes our bliss below ; And aU )ur knowledge is, Ourselves to know. THE DYma CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Vital spark of heavenly flame ! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! 142 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying; Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond nature ! cease thy strife. And let me languish into life. Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, " Sister spirit, come away." What is this absorbs me quite, — Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath,— Tell me, my soul ! can this be death 1 The world recedes— it disappears I Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring. Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 0 Grrave ! where is thy victory 1 0 Death ! where is thy sting 1 TO THE MEMORY OF SIR ISAAC NEWTON. The aerial flow of Sound was known to him, From whence it first in wavy circles breaks. Till the touch 'd organ takes the message in. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 143 Nor could the darting beam of speed immense Escape his swift pursuit and measuring eye. . E'en light itself, which everything displays, Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind Untwisted all the shining robe of day. And from the whitening, undistinguish'd blaze. Collecting every ray into his kind, To the charm'd eye educed the gorgeous train Of parent colours. First the flaming red Sprung vivid forth ; the tawny orange next ; And next delicious yellow ; by whose side Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green. Then the pure blue, that swells autumnal skies, Ethereal play 'd; and then, of sadder hue. Emerged the deepen'd indigo, as when The heavy-skirted evening droops with frost ; While the last gleamings of refracted light Died in the fainting violet away. These, when the clouds distil the rosy shower, Shine out distinct adown the watery bow ; While o'er our heads the dewy vision bends Delightful, melting on the fields beneath. Myriads of mingling dyes from these result. And myriads still remain ; infinite source Of beauty, ever blushing, ever new. Did ever poet image aught so fair. Dreaming in whispering groves, by the hoarse brook ] Or prophet, to whose rapture heaven descends? E'en now the setting sun and shifting clouds, 144 EVENIKGS WITH THE POETS. Seen, Greenwich, from thy lovely heights, declare How just, how beauteous the refractive law. The noiseless tide of Time,- all hearing down To vast Eternity's unbounded sea, .Where the green islands of the happy shine. He stemm'd alone ; and to the source (involved Deep in primeval gloom) ascending, raised His lights at equal distances, to guide Historian, wilder 'd on his darksome way. But who can number up his labours] who His high discoveries sing] when but a few Of the deep-studying race can stretch their minds To what he knew, in fancy's lighter thought How shaU the Muse then grasp the mighty theme? What wonder then that his devotion swell'd Kesponsive to his knowledge ] For could he. Whose piercing mental eye diffusive saw The finish'd university of things. In all its order, magnitude, and parts. Forbear incessant to adore that Power Who fills, sustains, and actuates the whole? Say ye, who best can tell, ye happy few, Who saw him in the softest lights of life. All unwithheld, indulging to his friends The vast unborrow'd treasures of his mind,— Oh, speak the wondrous man ! how mild, how calm, How greatly humble, how divinely good; How firmly stablish'd on eternal truth ; Fervent in doing well, with every nerve EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 145 Still pressing on, forgetful of the past. And panting for perfection: far above Those little cares and visionary joys That so perplex the fond impassion 'd heart Of ever-cheated, ever-trusting man. And you, ye hopeless, gloomy-minded tribe ! You who, unconscious of those nobler flights That reach impatient at immortal life, Against the prime endearing privilege Of being dare contend ! — say, can a soul Of such extensive, deep, tremendous powers. Enlarging still, be but a finer breath Of spirits dancing through their tubes a while, And then for ever lost in vacant air] But hark ! methinks I hear a warning voice. Solemn as when some awful change is come, [full, Sound through the world—'' 'Tis done !— The measure's And I resign my charge." — Ye mouldering stones, That build the towering pyramid, the proud Triumphal arch, the monument eflfaced Bj ruthless ruin, and whate'er supports The worshipp'd name of hoar antiquity, Down to the dust ! what grandeur can ye boast. While Newton lifts his column to the skies. Beyond the waste of time] Let no weak drop Be shed for him. The virgin in her bloom Cut off, the joyous youth, and darling child,— These are the tombs that claim the tender tear And elegiac song. But Newton calls 10 146 EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. For other notes of gratulation high. That now he wanders through those endless worlds He here so well descried, and wondering talks, And hymns their Author with his glad compeers. 0 Britain's boast ! whether with angels thou Sittest in dread discourse, or fellow-bless'd. Who joy to see the honour of their kind ; Or whether, mounted on cherubic wing. Thy swift career is with the whirling orbs. Comparing things with things, in rapture lost, And grateful adoration, for that light So plenteous ray'd into thy mind below. From Light himself; oh, look with pity down On human-kind, a frail, erroneous race ! Exalt the spirit of a downward world ! O'er thy dejected Country chief preside. And be her Genius call'd ! her studies raise;^ Correct her manners, and inspire her youth. For, though depraved and sunk, she brought thee forth, And glories in thy name : she points thee out To all her sons, and bids them eye thy star : While in expectance of the second life, When time shall be no more, thy sacred dust Sleeps with her kings, and dignifies the scene. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 147 FROM "SUMMER." When now no more th' alternate Twins are fired, And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze. Short is the doubtful empire of the nJght ; And soon, observant of approaching day, The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews. At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east : Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow ; And, from before the lustre of her face. White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step, Brown Night retii'es : young Day pours in apace, And opens all the lawny prospect wide. The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine ; And from the bladed field the fearful hare Limps awkward : while along the forest glade The wild deer trip, and often turning, gaze At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of undissembled joy ; And thick around the woodland hymns arise. Roused by the cOck, the soon-clad shepherd leaves His mossy cottage, where with Peace he dwells ; And from the crowded fold, in order, drires His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. FROM "AUTUMN." Now, by the cool declining year condensed. Descend the copious exhalations, check'd As up the middle sky unseen they stole, And roll the doubling fogs around the hill. No more the mountain, horrid, vast, sublime, Who pours a sweep of rivers from his sides. And high between contending kingdoms rears The rocky long division, fills the view With great variety ; but in a night Of gathering vapour, from the baffled sense Sinks dark and dreary. Thence expanding far. The huge dusk, gradual, swallows up the plain : Vanish the woods ; the dim-seen river seems Sullen, and slow, to roll the misty wave. Even in the height of noon opprest, the sun Sheds weak, and blunt, his wide-refracted ray ; Whence glaring oft, with many a broaden'd orb. He frights the nations. Indistinct on earth. Seen through the turbid air, beyond the life Objects appear ; and, wilder'd, o'er the waste The shepherd stalks gigantic. Till at last Wreath'd dun around, in deeper circles still. Successive closing, sits the general fog Unbounded o'er the world; and, mingling thick, A formless grey confusion covers all: EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 149 As when of old (so sung tlie Hebrew Bard) Light, uncollected, through the chaos urged Its infant wsy ; nor Order yet had drawn His lovely train from out the dubious gloom. ON A BISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 'Af^pwTros licavri 7rpo(^a«rts els to Sucrux"«'» — Menander. Ye distant spires, ye antiG[ue towers, That crown the watery glade. Where grateful science still adores Her Henry's* holy shade ! And ye that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among, Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver- winding way ! Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! Ah, fields beloved in vain. Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain ! * Kiag Henry VI., founder of the college. 150 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. I feel the gales that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow. As waving fresh their gladsome wing. My weary soul they seem to soothe. And, redolent of joy and youth. To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames — for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margin green. The paths of pleasure trace — Who foremost now delights to cleaye With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? The captive linnet which inthral I What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball ] While some, on earnest business bent. Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty ; Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry : Still as they run they look behind. They hear a voice in every wind. And snatch a fearful joy. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 15] Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, — Less pleasing when possest ; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast : Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new. And lively cheer of vigour born ; The thoughtless day, the easy night. The spirits pure, the slumbers light. That fly the approach of morn. Alas ! regardless of their doom. The little victims play : No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day. Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate. And black misfortune's baleful train ! Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murd'rous band ! Ah, tell them they are men ! These shall the fury passions tear. The vultures of the mind, — Disdainful anger, pallid fear, And shame that skulks behind ; Or pining love shall waste their youth ; Or jealousy with rankling tooth. That inly gnaws the secret heart ; EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. And envy wan, and faded care, Grim-visaged, comfortless despair, And sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high. To bitter scorn a sacrifice. And grinning infamy. The stings of falsehood those shall try ; And hard unkindness' alter'd eye. That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; And keen remorse, with blood defiled ; And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo ! in the vale of years beneath A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins. That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage ; Lo ! poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand. And slow-consuming age. To each his suflf 'rings : all are men Condemn'd alike to groan, — The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 153 Yet, all ! why should they know their fate, • Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies 1 — Thought would destroy their paradise. No more ;— where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. SONNET ON THE DEATH OF MB. RICHARD WEST.* In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire; The birds in vain their amorous descant join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. These ears, alas ! for other notes repine,— ^ A different object do these eyes require; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine. And in my breast th' imperfect joys expire. Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-bom pleasures bring to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain. I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear. And weep the more, because I weep in vain. » Only son of the Right Hon. Richard West, Lord Chancellor of Ireland. He died, June 1, 1742, in the 26th year of his age. €t)entngs uiitt) tl)e foti$. FOURTH EVENING. 11 (Coentngs tDttI) i\jt fotis. FOURTH EVENING, The Fourth Evening of the royal play of poets at Derley Manor agam found the Christmas party assembled in the old Library with its blazing fire shining brightly on the groups of happy young faces, and on the huge old-fashioned arm chair which ac- quired increasmg mterest with every new succession of a royal occupant. The choice of the previous evening had fallen on one of the younger members of the party. On the reassemblage of her subjects, Queen Ellen, with a well assumed air of demure gravity, thanked them for their loyal devotion to her during her brief reign, and then stepping down from her throne, she threaded her way through them, look- ing from right to left as if in doubt and unce^::ainty as to the choice of her successor. All eyes followed her movements, curious to see on whom her choice 158 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. would rest, but they were not kept long in suspense, for, stepping to the hearth, where old Mr. Howard sat in his arm chair, looking on with kindly sympathy at these proceedings, she suddenly clapped the holly crown upon his head, and, flinging her arms round his neck, exclaimed, Grandpapa shall be king of the evening ! A joyous shout was raised by the young folks, at this unexpected choice of a successor to Queen Ellen; and though Mr. Howard protested against his elevation to the throne as out of the question, and altogether at variance with the rights and privileges of the juvenUe commonwealth, he could obtain no hearuig from his new subjects, who crowded round his chair, and with sportive violence fairly dragged liim off to the vacant throne. It was some time before the new king could restore gravity or order to the assembly, so hearty were the greetings of liis youthful subjects, and so lively was the glee excited among them aU by the un- looked-for event of the selection of Grandpapa for their king. Silence being at length secured, Mr. Howard addressed the attentive young circle that gathered around him in the following words: — ^As you have departed from the ordinary com*se of your pro- cedure in the election of a sovereign to rule over the EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 159 entertainments of the evening, I shall claim the prerogatives accruing to such unexpected honours, and in so far depart from the example set by my royal predecessors as to invite your attention to tl)c $mmx 0f i\jt foets. There are few indeed among true English poets who have not occasionally relaxed from the severer majesty of poetic inspiration to indulge their wit in some humorous play with the powers of rhyme. Chaucer and Shakspere delighted in the mirthful vein. Even Milton at rare intervals amused a passing hour with this poetic pastime, and Cowper mingles with his grave and serious verse, numerous sprightly products of this mirthful mood. It is indeed a curious fact in the history of the human muid that some of the most humorous poems have been written to relieve the sadness, or to lighten the gloom of their author's mind. Several of Cowper's lighter and more amusing poems had their origin in the pleasant converse with which his kind friend Lady Austen sought to engage the poet's attention when depressed by those fits of hopeless dejection which so painfully clouded his latter years. To this ISO EVENIIieS WITH THE POETS wT^^r^^^rArfo^^i"^^^^ "The Task," and by her also the subject was snggested which gave rise to the divertmg history of "John Gilpin." The following is the account furnished by Hayley, of the oriom of this celebrated ballad: "It happened one afternoon that Lady Austen observed him smkmg into increasing dejection: it was her custom on these occasions to try all the resources of her sprightly powers for his immediate reUef. She told him the story of John UUpin (which had been treasured n> her memory bom her childhood,) to dissipate the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on the fancy of Co.vper had the air of enchantment. He informed her the next morning that convulsions of laughter, brought on by his recollection of her story, had kept him waking during the greatest part of the night, and that he had turned it into a ballad." No poet, however, has devoted himself with the same deUberation, or with the same success, to the worship of the laughing muse, as Samuel Butler, the author of Hudibras. It is a curious fact, however, that Butler, though perhaps the most witty writer m our language, is one of whom the least is known. His father was a small farmer at Strensham, m Wor- cestershire, where he was born about the year 1612. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 161 He was engaged at one time as clerk to a country justice, and at a later period appears to have acted as private secretary and librarian to Elizabeth, Countess of Kent, under whose patronage he enjoyed access to the best society, and revelled in the free use of an extensive library. The incident, however, that appears to have exercised the most lasting influence upon him, was his engaging in the service of Su- Samuel Luke, a knight of ancient family, who held a military command under Oliver Cromwell, and is generally believed to have been the prototype of Hudibras, the hero of his satirical poem. Upon the restoration of Charles II. to his father's throne the satyrist appears to have heartily espoused the cause of royalty, and to have indulged with reckless freedom in the gaiety and dissi- pation of that licentious era. Contrasting the license of Charles's profligate court with the decorum and the strict morals that had prevailed under the Protec- tor, the poet revenges himself on the system whose restramts had no doubt proved irksome to him in the well-regulated household of the Bedfordshire knight. Hudibras, the hero of this poem, is a presbyterian justice, who sets forth like another Don Quixote, for the reformation of abuses, accompanied by his squire Ralph, an independent clerk, with whom he carries on 162 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. an unwearying controversy, by means of which the witty satirist is able to keep up a continuous strain of most pungent and amusing dialogue. Such is the pomted humour and truth of his burlesque couplets, that many of them have become proverbial, and retam their popularity notwithstanding the total change of manners and habits smce he wrote. His fate was that of many wits. After living in familiar intercourse with the most eminent men of his day, and marrying a lady of good family and considerable fortune, he was mdebted to the charity of a friend for his rescue from absolute starvation, and the same generous source provided for him a grave in the church yard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, London. I shall not, however, detain you from the poetic humorists by such detaUs as have been preserved of some of their lives. Jonathan Swift, the witty Dean of St. Patrick's, and one of the ablest of Enghsh satir- ists, owes his reputation more to his wiitings in prose than in verse; and few indeed among juvenile reader^ have failed to peruse the voyages of Gulliver to LiUi- put and Brobdignag, or his strange satire dkected agamst the speculative philosophers of his age, under the picture of the Flying Island. Dr. Walcott, is another well known satiiist of a more recent date. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 163 familiar to all by his assumed name of Peter Pindar, while, inferior to few of his predecessors in wit and satirick humour. Thomas Moore, the lyric poet of Ireland, has employed the same amusing talent in assaihng, like his predecessors, the extravagances of his contemporaries and the failings of political oppo- nents ; but his allusions to characters and events are so closely dependant on the political movements that gave rise to them, that very many of them are unin- telHgible to the ordinary reader. Satire, however, is an altogether distinct department of poetic composi- tion, and often greatly inferior to the genial inspi- ration of a lively fancy which gives birth to the un- prompted humom- of tlie poets. HUMOUR OF THE POETS. 1 THE HUMOUR OF THE POETS. DESCEIPTION OF SIR HUDIBEAS. Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling And out he rode a colonelling. A wight he was, whose very sight would . Entitle him mirror of knighthood, That never bow'd his stubborn knee To any thing but chivalry, Nor put up blow, but that which laid Right worshipful on shoulder-blade ; Chief of domestic knights and errant. Either for chartle or for warrant ; Great on the bench, great in the saddle, That could as well bind o'er as swaddle ; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Mighty he was at both of these. And styled of war as well as peace; (So some rats, of amphibious nature, Are either for the land or water :) But here our authors make a doubt Whether he were more wise or stout ; Some hold the one and some the other, But howsoe'er they make a pother. The difference was so small, his brain Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain ; Which made some take him for a tool That knaves do work with, call'd a fool. For't has been held by many, that As Montaigne playing with his cat Complains she thought him but an ass, Much more she would Sir Hudibras (For that's the name our valiant knij;ht To all his challenges did write :) But they're mistaken very much ; 'Tis plain enough he was no such. We grant, although he had much wit, ir was very shy of using it. As being loath to wear it out, And therefore bore it not about ; Unless on holidays, or so, As men their best apparel do. Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak ; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. That Latin was no more difficile, Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle : Being rich in both, he never scanted His bounty unto such as wanted ; But much of either would afford To many that had not one word. For Hebrew roots, although they're found To flourish most in barren ground. He had such plenty, as sufficed To make some think him circumcised. • • • • He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic ; He could distinguish and divide A hau: 'twixt south and south-west side ; On either which he would dispute. Confute, change hands, and still confute ; He'd undertake to prove, by force Of argument, a man's no horse ; He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl ; A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks committee-men and trustees. 170 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. € 0 ID p e r. THE LOVE OF THE WOELD REPROVED; OB, HYPOCRISY DETECTED. Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork ; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part expressed, They might with safety eat the rest ; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarred And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose. These choose the back, the belly those ; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 171 By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head ; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mahometans eat up the hog. You laugh — 'tis well — The tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world — the preacher cries We do — a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards ; And one, whatever you may say. Can see no evil in a play ; Some love a concert, or a race ; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and followed. Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed ; Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he ; With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten 172 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. PAIRING-TIME ANTICIPATED. I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau, If "birds confabulate or no ; *Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable ; And e'en the child, who knows no better Than to interpret by the letter, A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most unconunon skull. It chanced, then, on a winter's day. But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestal sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love. And with much twitter and much chatter. Began to agitate the matter. At length a Bulfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most. Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's hberty to speak ; And, silence publicly enjoined, Delivered briefly thus his mind : My friends! be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet: I fear we shall have winter yet. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing, and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied : Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, Opposite, in the apple tree. By his good will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or (which is likelier to befall) Till death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado. My dear Dick Redcap, what say you I Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Tm-ning short round, strutting and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments so well expi'essed Influenced mightily the rest. All paired, and each pair built a nest. But though the birds were thus in li;iste The leaves came on not quite so fast, And Destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth. Now shifted east, and east by north ; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow. 174 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Stepping into their nests, tliey paddled, Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled Soon every father bird, and mother, Grew quarrelsome and pecked each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learned in future to be wiser. Than to neglect a good adviser. MORAL. Misses ! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry — Choose not alone a proper mate. But proper time to marry. SlDtft. A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY Of the goods belonging to Dr, Swift, Vicar of Laracor; upon lending hit house to the Bishop ofMeath, till his Palace was rebuilt. An oaken broken elbow-chair; A cawdle-cup, without an ear ; A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead ; A box of deal, without a lid ; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 175 A pair of tongs, but out of joint ; A backsword-poker, without point ; A pot that's crack'd across, around With an old knotted garter bound ; An iron lock, without a key ; A wig, with hanging quite grown gray ; A curtain worn to half a stripe ; A pair of bellows without pipe ; A dish which might good meat afford once ; An Ovid, and an old Concordance ; A bottle bottom, wooden platter. One is for meal, and one for water : There likewise is a copper skillet. Which runs as fast out as you fill it ; A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save all: And thus his household goods you have ali. These to your Lordship as a friend. Till you have built, I freely lend They'll serve your Lordship for a shift ; Why not, as well as Doctor Swift 1 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. S 0 u 1 1) e I). THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE- A WiiLL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the WeU of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the Well of St. Kej-ne; Joyfully he drew nigh. For from cock-crow he had been travelling; And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 177 There came a man from the house hard by At the Well to fill his pail ; On the Well-side he rested it, And he bade the Stranger hail. « Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger V quoth iie " For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in tliy life. Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast. Ever here in Cornwall been I For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." " I have left a good woman who never was here," The Stranger he made reply, " But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why V* St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time Drank of this crystal Well, And before the angel summon'd her. She laid on the water a spell. If the husband of this gifted Well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he. For he shall be master for life. 12 178 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then !" The Stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. " You drank of the Well I warrant betimes V* He to the Cornish-man said : But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. " I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch ; But i' faith she had been wiser than me. For she took a bottle to church." THE KING OF THE CROCODILES. PART L "Now, Woman, why without your veil? And wherefore do you look so pale ? And, Woman, why do you groan so sadly, And wherefore beat your bosom madly V* " Oh, I have lost my darling child, And that's tlie loss that makes me wild j He stoop 'd to the river down to drink, And there was a Crocodile by the brink. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 179 lie did not venture in to swim, He only stoopt to drink at the brim ; But under the reeds the Crocodile lay, And struck with his tail and swept him awssy Now take me in your boat, I pray, For down the river lies my way, And rae to the Reed-Island bring For I will go to the Crocodile King. He reigns not now in Crocodilople, Proud as the Turk at Constantinople ; No ruins of his great city remain. The Island of Reeds is his whole domain Like a Dervise there he passes his days. Turns up his eyes, and fasts and prays ; And being grown pious and meek and mild. He now never eats man, woman, or child." The man replied, " No, Woman, no. To the Island of Reeds I will not go ; I would not for any worldly thing See the face of the Crocodile King." " Then lend me now your httle boat, And I will down the river float, I tell thee that no worldly thing Shall keep me from the Crocodile Kiiig."^ 180 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. The Woman she leapt into the boat, And down the river alone did she float, And fast with the stream the boat proceeds, And now she is come to the Island of Keeds. The King of the Crocodiles there was seen. He sat upon the eggs of the Queen, And all around, a numerous rout. The young Prince Crocodiles crawl'd about. The Woman shook every limb mth feai\ As she to the Crocodile King came near. For never man without fear and awe The face of liis Crocodile Majesty saw. She fell upon her bended knee. And said, " 0 King, have pity on me. For I have lost my darling child. And that's the loss that makes me wild. A crocodile ate him for his food ; Now let me have the murderer's blood ; Let me have vengeance for my boy, The only thing, that can give me joy. I know that you, Sire I never do wrong. You have no tail so stiff and strong. You have no tail to strike and slay, But you have ears to hear what I say.*' EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 181 « You have done well," the King replies. And fix'd on her his little eyes ; «Good woman; yes, you have done right, But you have not described me quite. I have no tail to strike and slay, And I have ears to hear what you say ; I have teeth, moreover, as you may see. And I will make a meal of thee." THE KING OF THE CROCODILES. Wicked the word and bootless the boast, As cruel King Crocodile found to his cost. And proper reward of tyrannical might, He show'd his teeth, but he miss'd his bite. " A meal of me I" the Woman cried, Taking wit in her anger, and courage beside ; She took him his forelegs and hind between, And trundled him off the eggs of the Queen. To revenge herself then she did not fail. He was slow in his motions for want of a tail : But well for the Woman was it, the while, That the Queen was gadding abroad in the Niio. 182 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Two Crocodile Princes, as they played on the sand, She caught, and grasping them one in each hand. Thrust the head of one into the throat of the other, And made each Prince Crocodile choke his brother. And when she had truss'd three couple this way, She carried them off, and hasten'd away. And plying her oars with might and main, Cross'd the river and got to the shore again. When the Crocodile Queen came home, she found That her eggs were broken and scattered aroimd, And that six young Princes, darlings all. Were missing, for none of them answer'd her call. Then many a not very pleasant thing Pass'd between her and the Crocodile King « Is this your care of the nest 1" cried she ; " It comes of your gadding abroad," said he. The Queen had the better in this dispute, And the Crocodile King found it best to be mute. While a terrible peal in his ears she rung, For the Queen had a tail as well as a tongue. In woeful patience he let her rail, Standing less in fear of her tongue than her tail, And knowing that all the words which were spoken Could not mend one of the eggs that were broken. EVENINGS mTH THE POETS. 183 The Woman, meantime, was very well pleased She had saved her life, and her heart was eased ; The justice she ask'd in vain for her son. She had taken herself, and six for one. " Mash- Allah !" her neighbours exclaim*d in delight *, She gave them a funeral supper that night, Where they all agreed that revenge was sweet, And young Prince Crocodiles delicate meat. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort. Give ear unto my song. And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man. Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. 184 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. A land and gentle heart he had. To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be. Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. Tliis dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began. The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets. The wondering neighbours ran. And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. 'I'he wound it seeui'd botli sore and sad To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the mau would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied The man recover'd of tlie bite. The dog it was that died. FIFTH EYEl^ING. FIFTH EVEimG. If the merriment that prevailed among the juvenile assembly in the Library of Derley Manor had been great ont he occasion of Grandpapa's election to the vacant throne, it became altogether beyond control in the course of the evening, when they listened to the humorous selection of specimens of the British Poets, which was made under the guidance of Mr. Howard, or read by himself with such comic effect as led to not a few interruptions from the bursts of up- roarious laughter thereby occasioned. The evening wore away unheeded by the merry assembly, and when the sovereign announced, at a late hour, that it was absolutely necessary he should vacate his throne, the youngest in the company were ready to assure Grand- papa that they were not in the least sleepy, and wouldgladly listen for another hour to the same delight- ful spechnens of poetic humour. I'heir sovereign was 188 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. at first inexorable, and laughingly threatened liis noisy subjects with all manner of despotic pains and penal- ties if they insisted on coercing him into a longer en- durance of the cares of royalty. But the more he threatened, they only grew the more rebellious, and, like other rulers, he was at length fain to purchase their subordination by mutual compromise. Tliey had heard, he said, specimens of wit and humour, from some of the gravest of English poets ; he would now conclude the selections of this evening, devoted to poetic mirth, by reading to them the narrative of one of Humour's frolics, which was at least certain to possess the merit of novelty ; and so taking down from a shelf in the Library a well-thumbed old volume, fiUed with pieces of prose and verse in his own well- known handwriting, he proceeded to read aloud, the following j'ew d' esprit, entitled, APRIL FOOLING. When old Father Time, one April day, As all the world knows, fell a nai ping, Fun and Frolic by chance found him out as he lay, And on his bald head, for a capping, Whipt a fool's-cap and bells, that in jingling awotte The busy old soul from dreaming EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 1S9 He had given Methuselah's jaws a poke, And his first rotten tooth was claiming : But the soher wight, Now in merry plight, Resolved for once on a frolicking ; Took his glass from its stand, Then shook from it the sand. And quick in its stead put some froth thereivi. But when Fun caught a few Of the bubbles he blew. She tossed them and set the world after, And the poking and racing, The knocking and chasing. Since have served her and Frolick for laughter. Of all the bubbles that he blew 'Twere tedious the narration. But just to single out a few, There's the bubble Reputation 1 Folks crowd pell-mell Up Fame's steep hill, And scramble each for station, Gulping the bubbles from its rill, Then sputter with vexation. The froth another bubble blew From old Time's soporism, In whose pursuit a motley crev/ In chorus raised the view-hoUc, The bubble Criticism 1 190 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Still as they chase the crowd lucreases, A rare assortment of odd faces ; The purchaser of musty missal, In wild pursuit now seemed to pass all; While hard behind, with nimble long limb, See Van Daub's patron gaining on him 1 Nor lags the genuine Antiquary, When once its worth awoke to, Who, oh rare gem ! from Lethe's quarry Has rescued Noah's cork-icrew I The owner likewise of Eve's glass, Hairs from the tail of Balaam's Ass. A primer that King David's was, And Solomon's school-book too! " But, mark I" cries Fun to Frolick, " yondcT, Just as the bubble turns the corner, A hero, armed with quill for lance, And fitly mounted for the nonce. Spurs on his goose to join the fray, And bears the glittering prize away l" But, not to wear your patience out, 'Tis said that Love's a bell too, Thrown up by Fun to raise the rout That in pursuit then fell to ; But this an error is no doubt, The ring's shape may have given out. Arising from its roundness ; For once within, 'tis soon found out Its emptiness was groundless I EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 191 But since its shape is round no doubt, An egg it rather must be ; And howsoe'er the white turn out ; When dropt, ere scarce the mouth's about. The YOKE proves oft times musty 1 Besides all these, were found among The drowsy cyle's last bubbles, A long array at random strung, To fit the gay with troubles ; The busy idler, now content, May prove himself most wretched ; Nor fancied trouble need invent, When Fun is by to fetch it ; Then from her gilded bubbles choose The gaudiest you can borrow, But this my rhyme Must tell, that Time Sobered awoke the morrow i Refilled his glass ; resumed his watch ; And made for those his bubbles catch, A double tide of sorrow 1 The maimer in which this last piece was read con- tributed greatly to its ejffect on the listeners. Mr. Howard began it in a lively and jocund strain, that harmonized admirably with the humour of his mirth- ful auditors ; as he progressed, however, his voice gra- dually aissumed a graver tone, and he read with an ear- 192 EYENINaS WITH THE POETS. nest andimpressive deliberation, until, ashe pronounced the concluding words, he slowly closed the volume The effect on his whole audience was remarkable. A quiet and thoughtful gravity had given place to the mirthful lines so recently traced on every visage, as Mr. Howard rose and invited them to accompany him to the Hall, where the members of the household were aheady assembled in expectation of his appear- ance to close the day, accordmg to the custom of this Christian family, by the beautiful and simple rites of family worship; such was the graceful close of this pleasant evening's pastimes, wHch, from its peculiar attractions, we narrated with unusual detail, before describing the proceedings of the FIFTH EVENING. Another day brought round its accustomed plea sures and once more the Library of Derley Manor exhibited its group of happy young faces, aU reflect- ing the delighted remembrance of the pleasant intel- lectual pastime of the previous evening. Old Mr. Howard, who had entered with such genial humour into the spirit of their diversions, andhad furnished for their evemng's entertainment so acceptable a selection EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. 193 from the poets, made his appearance among them once more, in order to complete the royal duties incumbent on him by nominating a successor. The morning of that day had been clear and frosty, though the snow lay thick around, and the leafless trees were festooned with the long icicles which the evening frost made from the melting snow that slowly yielded to the rays of the mid-day sun. Notwithstanding the thick covering of snow on the ground, and the keen frost m the air, most of the young guests of Derley Manor ha,d rejoiced once more to escape from their forced confinement to the house. Some of the ladies walked in the garden, but it had a dreary and comfort- less look. The flowers were all deep buried under their winter coverlet. The bare trees, clad only with clumps of snow or sparkling with their pendant icicles, looked far better when viewed from the comfortable parlour windows, than in the nearer prospect which the more venturous explorers gained by their ramble amid the snow. The bushes and the hardy evergreens seemed buried in heaps of the same universal covering, save where here and there the wind had shaken loose a tuft of the gHstening holly leaves, and showed beneath the sparklmg clusters of its red berries. The ladlas, young and old, speedily retreated back to the warm 13 194 EYENTI^GS -WITH THE POETS. fire-side in the old parlour, but meanwhile, tlie more venturous youths had carried their explorations beyond the garden waUs, and the news soon reached the chcle in the parlour, that the pond was covered with a merry party of skaters and sliders. The ladies again resumed their boots and pelisses. Furs, cloaks, and shawls were speedily in requisition, and they were not only soon beside the pond enjoying the exHlerating sight, but the ice being thick and the pond shallow, the least courageous of them had been persuaded, before the day was over, to take their seat in a sledge or car, hastily constructed for their use, and drawn by relays of the boisterous sliders with easy and rapid motion along the ice. Such were the occupations that had sufficed to wile away the short winter day in exhilerating sport, and brought the whole party together in the evening full of pleasurable excitement, prepared to enjoy with double zest the intellectual pastime with the beauties of the poets. Mr. Howard selected for-the Queen of the Evening, Miss Mary Bevans,— a young lady who had been the first to ventm-e in the car and set the example to her fair companions of enjoying their share of the sport on the ice, I fear —said Queen Mary, on taking her seat as the EVENITOS WITH THE POETS. 195 ruler of the evening, — tliat I shall not be able to pro- vide for you such acceptable entertainment as swiftly beguiled the passing hours during our last meeting here. Nevertheless the subject which I shall invite you to illustrate is one that offers abundant attrac- tions, if treated with the care it merits, I mean ^t ^mikB af i\jt foetmcs. It is scarcely necessary that I should do more than enumerate the Fan: Poets of our country, their names include some of the noblest of their sex. The great ruler of England, Queen Elizabeth, amused her moments of leism-e with the pleasures of verse, and her hapless prisoner the lovely and unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, beguiled the long hours of her captivity with the same soothing occupation. Others of noble birth, and royal Imeage have followed their example. I shall not, however, detain you by the quaint verses of these elder poetesses, but shall rather tempt you to select from the sweet songstresses of recent times the entertainments of this evening. One of the most gifted poetesses of modem times, is Mrs. Tighe, a native of Ireland, whose exquisite poem, constructed from the beautiful Greek allegory 196 EYENINGS "WITH THE POETS. of Psyche, is scarcely sui'passed by any poem of modem times. Miss Blanchford, the daughter of an Irish clergyman of good family, married her cousin Henry Tighe, of Woodstock, in 1793, at the early age of nineteen. Her husband was warmly attached to her, and sympathised with her in her hterary tastes ; but consumption was hereditary in Mrs. Tighe's family, and its fatal seeds ripened with her womanhood. Amid the languor of incipient disease and faihng strength she wrote the exquisite poem of Psyche, and with the profits of four successive editions, she enlarged the Orphan Asylum at Wicklow by an addition which still bears the name of the Psyche Ward. Great, however, as was her poetic genius, it has won more admiration froju strangers, than from the relatives who might well have been proud of then- connection with the gifted Poetess. She died in 1810, at the early age of thirty-six. Her husband testified his admiration and sorrow by engaging the cliisel of Flaxman to adorn her tomb with a suitable memorial ; but other members of the family, proud of their lordly acres, seem to have thought their rank degraded by the creations of the Poetess, and we search in vain for some worthy biographic narrative of her brief c^j'eer. Others, however, have appreciated her EVEKINGS WITH THE POETS. 197 worth. Mrs. Hemans deliglited to dwell, with mourn- ful pleasure, on her memory, and her own countryman Moore thus records his admiration of Psyche:— " Tell me the witching tale again, For never has my heart or ear Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain, So pure to feel, so sweet to hear. Say, Love 1 in all thy spring of fame, When the high Heaven itself was thine. When piety confessed the flame. And even thy errors were divine ! Did ever muse's hand so fair A glory round thy temple spixad? Did ever life's ambrosial air Such perfume o'er thine altars shed?" Among England's poetesses, none have attamed to a stronger or more endui-ing hold on the popular mind than Felicia Hemans, the sweet but sad song- stress, who has told with such beauty and such power, the sufferings, the sorrows, and the wi'ongs of woman. Felicia Dorothea Brown was bom in Livei-pool, on the 25th September, 1793, the daughter of an eminent Irish merchant. Her mother mingled the warm blood 198 EVENII^GS WITH THE POETS. of an Italian with that of Germany, and her single- mindedness and deep afifection, added to acquirements of a very high order, exercised a strong influence on the training of her infant daughter. Felicia was distin- guished, almost from the cradle, by extreme beauty and great intelligence. At the age of nineteen she was married to Captain Hemans. An attachment founded on love that seemed equally strong with both, led them to overlook the ordinary dictates of worldly prudence. But the marriage proved an unhappy one. After silently enduring many wrongs, Mrs. Hemans was at length separated from her husband, and while seeking to maintain and educate her childi^en by the labours of her pen, she clothed in the touching elo- quence of poetry, the sorrows of a wounded heart. During her residence with her young family of sons, in Wales, the following may be selected from among many interesting occurrences to illustrate the lighter incidents of her life. " In the. spring of 1825, Mrs. Hemans, with her mother and sister, and four of her boys (the eldest having been placed at school at Ban- gor), removed from Bronwylfa to EhyUon, another house belonging to her brother, not more than a quar- ter of a mile from the former place, and in full view from its windows. The distance being so inconsider- ETENINGS WITH THE POETS. 199 able, this could, in fact, scarcely be considered as a removal. The two houses, each situated on an emi- nence, on opposite sides of the river Clwyd, confronted each other so conveniently, that a telegraphic com- munication was estabhshed between them (by means of a regular set of signals and vocabulary, similar to those made use of in the navy), and was carried on for a season with no little spirit, greatly to the amuse- ment of their respective inhabitants. Nothing could be less romantic than the outward appearance of Mrs. Hemans's new residence— a tall, starmg, brick house, almost destitute ot trees, and un- adorned (far, indeed, from being thus 'adorned the most') by the covering mantle of honeysuckle, jessa- mme, or any such charitable drapery. Bronwylfa, on the contrary, was a perfect bower of roses, and peeped out like a bhd's nest from amidst the foliage ui which it was embosomed." I must not linger over the life of this gifted poetess, but just snatch a notice or two from her Memoirs ere we turn to the beauties of her works. In the month of July 1829, she visited Scotland, and after spending some dehghtful days at Abbotsford, and rambling over the romantic neighbom^hood, under the guidance of Sir Walter Scott, she proceeded to Edinburgh which 200 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. she describes as ''a gallant city to behold, fuU of pic- tures at eveiy turn of the streets." Here she had a most cordial reception, and met with society well cal- culated to interest and delight her. One extract from her own note-book, wiU sufficiently illustrate this :— " I have just returned from paymg the visit I men- tioned, to Mr. Mackenzie, the ' Man of Feelmg.' and have been exceedmgly interested. He is now very infirm, and his powers of mind are often much affected by the fitfuhiess of nervous indisposition, so that his daughter, who introduced me to his sittmg- room, said very mournfuUy as we entered, 'You wiU see but the wi-eck of my father.' However, on my making some aUusion, after his first kind and gentle re- ception of me, to the ' men of other times,' with whom he had lived m such brilliant association, it was really like the effect produced on the ' Last Mmstrel'— ' when he caught the measure wild ; The old man raised his face, and smiled, And lighted up hia faded eye;' for he became immediately excited, and aU liis fur- rowed countenance seemed kindling with recoUec- tions of a race gone by. It was smgular to hear anec- dotes of Hume, and Robertson, and Gibbon, and the other inteUectual 'giants of old,' from one who had EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 201 mingled with their minds m familiar converse. I felt as if carried back at least a century. Ahl' said he, half playfuUy, half sadly, 'there were men in Scotland then 1' I could not help think- ing of the story of ' Ogier the Dane'-do you recol- lect his grasping the iron crow of the peasant, who broke into his sepulchre, and exclaiming, 'It is well there are men m Denmark still?' Poor Miss Mac- kenzie was so much affected by the sudden and almost unexpected awakening of her father's mind, that, on leaving the room with me, she burst into tears, and was some time before she could conquer her strong emotion. I hope to have another interview with this delightful old man before I leave Edinburgh." But we must not linger over this gifted woman's life. She died in Dublin, on the 16th of May, 1835, at the early age of 41. Her remains were deposited in a vault beneath St. Anne's Chui'ch in Dublin, almost close to the house where she died. A small tablet has been placed above the spot where she is laid, inscribed with her name, her age, and the date of her death, and with the following lines from a dirge of her own : — " Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair Spirit 1 rest thee now i 202 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Ev'n while with us thy footsteps trode, His seal was on thy brow. Dust to its narrow house beneath I Soul to its place on high ! They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die." So much time has been occupied in these notices of Felicia Hemans's life, that I shall do little more than glance at other eminent names among her sister poets. Johanna Baillie, one of the most vigorous writers of her sex that ever adorned any age or country, has sur vived the great poets and the eminent literary men among whom she took her part in earlier years. She has ventured to cope with the most gifted geniuses, in the lofty themes of dramatic composition, with won- derful success, and while displaying all the vigour of masculine intellect, she has tempered it with the sweetness of feminine delicacy of thought. But were I to go over the list of eminent poetesses, even in the briefest manner, no time would remam for us to turn to the productions of their pen. Miss Landon, the romantic and gifted L. E. L., hes m her distant grave, amid the wilds of Africa, with the histoiy of her last hours, and of her domestic life, veiled in mystery. Caroline Bowlqs, the tender and gifted poetess, sm-- EVENINGS WITH THE FOETS. 203 vives as the widow of the poet Southey, and her still more vigorous sister poet, Elizaboth Barrett, has clianged her maiden narne, on wedding with another poet, to that of Browning. But I have said enough to tempt you to vie with one another in selecting from the tender and the beautiful productions of the poet- essess such poems as will prove the claims of the daughters of England to take their place on an equality of rank among the noble band of poets. 1 THE BEAUTIES OF THE POETESSES. THE BEAUTIES OF THE POETESSES. FEOM " PSYCHE.'- When pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth^ And the gay hours on downy wing advance, Oh ! then 'tis sweet to hear the lip of truth Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance The raptured soul by intermingling glance Of mutual bliss ; sweet amid roseate bowers. Led by the hand of love to weave the dance, Or unmolested crop hfe's fairy flowers, Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm, unclouded hour Yet they, who, light of heart in May-day pride, Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous song, (Though he their softest pleasures may provide, Even then when measures in full concert throng) 208 ETENINGS WITH THE POETS. They cannot know with what enchantment strong He steals upon the tender suffering soul, What gently soothing chains to him belong, How melting sorrow owns his soft control, Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves to roll. When vexed by cares, and harrassed by distress, The storms of Fortune chill thy soul with dread. Let love, consoling love ! still sweetly bless. And his assuasive balm benignly shed ; His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spreau, Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose; To love the tender heart hath ever fied. As on its mother's breast the infant throws. Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woeg. LINES, ON KECEIVING A BEANCH OF ME.rh.BEON Odours of spring, my sense ye charm, With fragrance premature. And 'mid these days of dark alarm, Almost to hope allure. Methinks with purpose soft ye come. To tell of brighter hours, Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom. Her sunny gales and showers. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 209 Alas ! for me shall May in vain The powers of life restore ; These eyes that weep and watch in pain. Shall see her charms no more. No, no, this anguish cannot last ; Beloved friends adieu ; The bitterness of death were past, Could I resign but you. Oh ! ye who soothe the pangs of deatn With love's own patient care. Still, still retain this fleeting breath. Still pour the fervent prayer. And ye, whose smiles must greet my eye No more, nor voice my ear. Who breathe for me the tender sigh. And shed the pitying tear ; Whose kindness, though far, far removed, Thy grateful thoughts perceive; Pride of my life — esteemed, beloved, My last sad claim receive I Oh, do not quite your friend forget — Forget alone her faults ; And speak of her with fond regret, Who asks your lingering thoughts. 14 210 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. EVENING PRAYEIi AT A GIELS' SCHOOL. Husul 'tis a holy hoiir — the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads. With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer. Gaze on — 'tis lovely I — childhood's lip and cheek. Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought : Gaze — ^yet what seest thou in those fau', and meek. And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity I 0 I joyous creatures i that will sink to rest, Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — Lift up your hearts ! thougn } et no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 211 Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread. And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; Yet in those flute-like voices mingling low. Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep. To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! And to make idols, and to find them clay. And to bewail that worship— therefore pray ! Her lot is on you — to be found untired. Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a t^ue heart of hope, though hope be vain ; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray ! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime. As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! Earth will forsake — Oh ! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Kej^ven. 212 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. THE LANDING OF THE PILaEIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. Look now abroad — another race has filled Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are'tilled ; The land is full of harvests and green meads. Bryant. The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast. And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss'd. And the heavy night hung dark. The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bai-k On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums. And the trumpet that sings of fame : Not as the flying come. In silence and in fear ; — • They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. EVEfTINGS WITH THE POETS. 213 Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea I And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd — This was their welcome home ! There were men with hoary hair, Amidst that pilgrim band ; — Why had they come to wither there. Away from theu' childhood's laud ? • There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of yovith. What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine ! The wealth of seas, the spoils of war !-- - They sought a faith's pure shrine I Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ! They have left unstain'd what there they found- Freedom to worship God. 214 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. INVOCATION. I called on dreams and visions to disclose That which is veiled from vraking thought ; conjured Eternity, as men constrain a ghost To appear and answer. Wordswokth Answer me, burning stars of night ! Where is the spirit gone. That past the reach of human sight, As a swift breeze hath flown ? — And the stars answered me — We roIJ In light and power on high ; But of the never-dying soul. Ask that which cannot die." Oh ! many-toned and chainless wind ! Thou art a wandei*er free ; Tell me if thou its place canst find. Far over mount and sea ? — And the wind murmur'd in reply, " The blue deep I have cross'd. And met its barks and billows high, But not what thou hast lost.'* EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 215 Ye clouds that gorgeously repose Around the setting sun, Answer I have ye a home for those Whose earthly race is run ? The bright clouds answered — " We depart, We vanish from the sky ; Ask what is deathless in thy heart, For that which cannot die." Speak then, thou voice of God within. Thou of the deep low tone ! Answer me, through life's restless din. Where is the spirit flown And the voice answered — " Be thou still Enough to know is given ; Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfill, Thine is to trust in Heaven." THE GEAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD Thky grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one home with glee ; Their graves are severed far and wide. By mount, and stream, and sea. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight, Where are those dreamers now ? One, midst the forests of the west, By a dark stream is laid — The Indian knows his place of rest. Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep ; He, was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vhics are di-cst Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colours round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. A.nd one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; She faded midst Italian flowers, — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree j Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee I EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 217 They that with smiles lit up the hall. And cheered with song the hearth,— Alas 1 for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh, earth ! AMBITION. Tell me no more, no more Of my soul's lofty gifts 1 Are they not vain To quench its haunting thirst for happiness I Have I not loved, and striven, and fail'd to bind One true heart unto me, whereon my own Might find a resting-place, a home for all Its burden of affections I I depart. Unknown, though Fame goes with me ; I must leave The earth unknown. Yet it may be that deatn Shall give my name a power to win such tears As would have made life precious. THE TEEASURES OP THE SEA. What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells Thou hollow -sounding and mysterious main ! Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells. Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vaia Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea I We ask not such from thee. EVENIJJGS WITH THE POETS. Yet more, the depths have more !-What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main I Earth claims not these again I Yet more, the depths have more I-Thy waves have rolJ'd Above the cities of a world gone by I Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry I Dash o'er them, ocean I in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay I Yet more, the billows and the depths have more I High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast I They hear not now the booming waters roar,^ The battle thunders will not break their re'st. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave I Give back the true and brave I Give back the lost and lovely I Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long ; The prayer went up through midnight's breathlesVgloom. And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song I Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrowi,— But all is not thine own I EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 219 To thee the love of woman hath gone down ; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead I — Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee !— Restore the dead, thou sea I FAME. 0, WHO shall lightly say that fame Is nothing but an empty name, Whilst in that sound there is a charm, The nerves to brace, the heart to warmj As, thinking of the mighty dead. The young from slothful couch will start. And vow, with lifted hands outspread. Like them to act a noble part! 0, who shall lightly say that fame Is nothing but an empty name. When memory of the mighty dead To earth- worn pilgrims' wistful eye The brightest rays of cheering shed, That point to immortality 1 220 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. SISTEELY FRIENDSHIP. DE MOXFORT AND JANE. De Mon. No more, my sister urge me not again ; My secret troubles cannot be revealed, From all participation of its thoughts My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. Jane. What ! must I, like a distant humble friend Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed In timid silence, whilst, with yearning heai't, I turn aside to weep ? 0 no, De Monfort ! A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; Thy true entrusted friend I still shall be. De Mon. Ah, Jane forbear ! I cannot e'en to thee, Jane. Then, fie upon it ! fie upon it, Monfort ! There was a time when e'en with murder stained. Had it been possible that such dire deed Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous, Thou would'st have told it me. De Mon. So would I now ; — but ask of this no more ; All other troubles but the one I feel I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me ; It is the secret weakness of my natm'e. Jane. Then secret let it be ! I urge no further. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, (So sadly orphaned,) side by side we stood, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 221 Like two young trees, whose boughs in eaxly strength Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove, And brave the storm together. I have so long, as if by nature's right, Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been ; I thought through life I should have so remained, Nor ever known a change.— Forgive me, Monfort, An humbler station will I take by thee; — , The close attendant of thy wandering steps, The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought, The soother of those griefs I must not know, — This is mine office now : I ask no more. De Mon. Oh, Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy love — Would I could tell thee I Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay I'll stop mine ears, Nor from the yearnings of affection wring What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother. I'll stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee ; Pursue with thee the study of some art, Or nobler science, that compels the mind To steady thought progressive, — driving forth All floating wild, unhappy fantasies, — Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again ; — Like one who from dark visions of the night, When th' active soid within her lifeless cell Holds its own worlds, with dreadful fancy pressed, Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed, Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses Heaven. 222 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. LIFE'S SUNNY SPOTS. I WILL collect some rare, some cheerful friends, And we shaU spend together glorious hours. That gods might envy. Little time so spent Doth far outvalue all our life beside. This is indeed our life, our waking life. The rest dull breathing sleep. — Thus, it is true, from the sad years of life We sometimes do short hours, yea mmutes strike, Keen, bhssful, bright, never to be forgotten ; Which, through the dreary gloom of time o'er past, Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild waste. But few they are, as few the heaven-fired souls Whose magic power creates them. FRIENDSHIP TILL DEATH. Hand in hand we have enjoyed The playful term of infancy together ; And in the rougher path of ripened years We've been each other's stay. Dark lowers our fate. And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; But nothing, till that latest agony Which severs thee from nature, shall unlooso EV-ENINGS WITH THE POETS. 223 This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-hou.^ In the terrific face of armed law ; Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, I never will forsake thee. REFLECTIONS ON A BATTLE-FIELD So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun, Rose cheerily, and girt your armour on With all the vigour and capacity. And comeliness of strong and youthful men. Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane. With grizzled pates, from mates whose withered hands For some good thirty years had smoothed your couch : Alas ! and ye whose fair and early growth Did give you the similitude of men Ere your fond mothers ceased to tend you still. As nurselings of their care, ye lie together I Alas, alas I and many now there be. Smiling and crowing on their mother's breast, Twining, with all their little infant ways, Around her hopeful heart, who shall, like these. Be laid i' the dust. 224 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. HUMAN LIFE. Man's uncertain life Is like a rain-drop hanging on the bough. Amongst ten thousand of its sparkling kindred, The remnants of some passing thunder-shower^ Which have their moments, dropping one by on And which shall soonest lose its perUous hold We cannot guess. MUSIC. Amid the golden gifts which heaven Has left, like portions of its light, on earth, None hath such influence as music hath. The painter's hues stand visible before us In power and beauty ; we can trace the thoughts Which are the workmgs of the poet's mind : But music is a mystery, and viewless Even when present, and is less man's act, And less within his order ; for the hand That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell Whither they go, or if they live or die, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 225 When floated once beyond his feeble ear : And then, as if it were an unreal thing, The wind will sweep from the neglected strings As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew. THE FOESAKEN. Oh, misery ! to see the tomb Close over all our world of bloom ; To look our last in the dear eyes Which made our light of Paradise ; To know that silent is the tone Whose tenderness was all our own ! To kiss the cheek which once had burned At the least glance, and find it turned To marble ; and then think of all. Of hope that memory can recall. Yes misery ! but even here There is a somewhat left to cheer, A gentle treasuring of sweet things Remembrance gathers from the past, The pride of faithfulness, which clings To love kept sacred to the last. And even if another's love Has traced the heart to us above 15 226 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. The treasures of the east, yet still There is a solace for the ill. Those who have known love's utmost spell Can feel for those who love as well; Can half forget their own distress. To share the loved one's happiness. But oh, to know our heart has been. Like the toy of an Indian queen, Turn, trampled, without thought or care, Where is despair like this despair. THE DESERTED HALL. — The gloom Of a deserted banquet-room : — To see the spider's web outvie The torn and faded tapestry;— To shudder at the cold damp air. Then thini: how once were blooming there The incense-vase with odom- flowing. The silver lamp its softness throwing O'er cheeks as beautiful and bright As roses bathed in summer light ; How tln-ough the portals sweepiug came Proud cavalier and high-born dame EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 227 With gems like stars 'mid raven curls, And snow-white plumes and wreathed pearls j — Gold cups, whose lighted flames made dim The sparkling stones around the brim; — Soft voices answering to the lute, The swelling harp, the sigh- waked flute; — The glancing lightness of the dance; — Then, starting sudden from thy trance. Gaze round the lonely place and see Its silence and obscurity: Then commune with thine heart and say, These are the footrprints of decay. — And I, even thus, shall pass away. THE ADIEU. We'll miss her at the morning hour, When leaves and eyes unclose; When sunshine calls the dewy flower To waken from repose. For like the singing of a bird. When first the sunbeams fall, The gladness of her voice was heard The earhest of us all. We'll miss her at the evening time, For then her voice and lute EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Best loved to sing some sweet old rhyme, "When other soimds were mute. Twined round the ancient window -seat, While she was singing there, The jasmine from outside would meet. And wreathe her fragrant hair. We'll miss her when we gather round Our blazing hearth at night. When ancient memories abound. Or hopes where all unite; And pleasant talk of years to come Those years our fancies frame. Ah I she has now another home. And bears another name. Her heart is not with our old hall. Not with the things of yore; And yet, methinks, she must recall What was so dear befox-e. She wept to leave the fond roof where She had been loved so long. Though glad the peal upon the air. And gay the bridal throng. Yes, memory has honey cells. And some of tliem are ours, For in the sweetest of them dwells The dream of early hours. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 229 The hearth, the hall, the window-seat, Will bring us to her mind; In yon wide world she cannot meet All that she left behind. Loved, and beloved, her own sweet will It was that made her fate; She has a fairy home — ^but still Our own seems desolate. We may not wish her back again. Not for her own dear sake: Oh I love, to form one happy chain. How many tliou must break ! (£. |. lartftt. THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. Little EUie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side, on the grass: And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. 230 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. She has thrown her bonnet by; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow — Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone, — And the smile she softly useth. Fills the silence like a speech; While she thinks what shall be done, — And the sweetest pleasure, chooseth, For her future within reach' Little Ellie in her smile Chooseth — " I will have a lover. Riding on a steed of steeds I He shall love me without guile; And to him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds. And the steed shall be red-roan. And the lover shall be noble. With an eye that takes the breath, — And the lute he plays upon. Shall strike ladies into trouble. As his sword strikes men to death. EVENINaS WITH THE POETS. And the steed, it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim tlie wind ! And the hoofs along the sod, Shall flash onward in a pleasure, Till the shepherds look behind. But my lover will notpriz All the glory that he rides in. When he gazes in my face! He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides inj And I kneel here for thy grace.* Then, ay, then — he shall kneel low. With the red-roan steed anear him Which shall seem to understand — Till I answer, ' Rise, and go 1 For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.' Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a yes I must not say— Nathless, maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' I will utter and dissemble — * Light to-morrow with to-day.' 232 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Then he will ride through the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong ! To make straight distorted wills, — And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet — * Lo my master sends this gage. Lady, for thy pity's counting ! What wilt thou exchange for it I* And the first time, I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, — And the second time a glove I But the third time — I may bend From my pride and answer — ' Pardon — If he comes to take my love.* Then the young foot-page will run — Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee I * I am a duke's eldest son I Thousand serfs do call me master,— But, 0 Love, I love but thee !' EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 233 He wUl kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Little Ellie, with her smile Not^'et ended, rose up gaily,— Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe — And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted. Where the osier pathway leads- Past the boughs she stoops— and stops! Lo! the wild swan had deserted — And a rat had gnawed the reeds. Ellie went home sad and slow ! If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not ! but I know She could show him nevei— never, That swan's nest among the reeds! 234 EVEXTNGS WITH THE POETS. TO FLUSH, MT DOG. dog wub -iven to the Author by Miss Mitford, and is of the ■e which she has rendered famous among English readers. Loving friend, the gift of one, Kindly who her faith hath run Through thy lower nature; Be my benediction said. With my hand upon thy head. Gentle fellow-creature. Like a lady's ringlets brown, Flow thy silken ears adown _ Either side, demurely, Of thy silver-suited breast Shining out from all the rest. Of thy body, purely. Underneath my stroking hand Startled eyes of hazel bland Kindling, — ^growing larger,— Upward, upward, dost thou spring, Full of prank and curvetting. Rearing like a charger! Leap! thy broad tail waves a light,— Leap I thy slender feet are bright; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 235 Glittering in their fringes; Leapl those tasselled ears of thine Flicker strangely, free and fine, Down their golden inches. Yet, 0 pretty, playful friend. Little is't for such an end That 1 praise thy rareness: Other dogs may be thy peers Haply in those tasselled ears, And that glossy fairness; But of thee it shall be said. This dog watched beside a bed. Day and and night unweary; Watched within a curtained room. Where no sunbeam cleft the gloom Round the sick and dreary. Roses gathered for a vase. In that chamber died apace, Beam and breeze resigning — This dog, friend-like, waited on, Knowing that when light is gone, Love remains for shming. Other dogs, at sweep of horn Barked along the shivering com EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Till the game was started; — This dog only, all the day, Patient by a pillow lay. Watching the sad-hearted. Other dogs of faithful cheer Followed close the whistle clear. Up the woodside hieing; — This dog only watched in reach Of a faintly uttered speech. Or a louder sighing. And if one or two quick tears Dropped upon his glossy ear^ Or a sigh came double. Up he sprang in eager haste. Fawning, fondling, breathing fast, In a tender trouble. And this dog was satisfied If a pale thin hand would glide Stroking and reposing Down his ears, and o'er his head. With an open palm, he laid Afterward, his nose in. Therefore to this dog will i Tenderly not scornfully. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Hender praise and favour: With my hand upon his head. Is my benediction said, Therefore, and for ever. And because he loved me so, Better than his kind will do Often, man or woman, Give I back more love again Than dogs often have of men- Leaning from my Human. Mock 1 thee in wishing weail— Rather could I weep to feel Thou art made so straightly! Blessings needs must straighten too. Little canst thou joy and do. Thou who lovest greatly. Yet be blessed to the height Of all dream and all delight Pervious to thy nature; Only loved beyond that line. Worthily of love of thine, Loving fellow-creaturQl 238 EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. VICTORIA'S TEARS. " 0 MAIDEN, heir of kings, A king has left his place; The Majesty of death has swept All other from his face And thou upon thy mother's breast, No longer lean adown — But take the glory for the rest, And rule the land that loves thee best." The maiden wept; She wept to wear a crown. They decked her courtly halls — They reined her hundred steeds — They shouted at her palace gate, "A noble Queen succeeds!" Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep Her praise has filled the town: And mourners God had stricken deep. Looked hearkening up, and did not weep ! Alone she wept, Who wept to wear a crown. She saw no purple shine, For tears had dimmed her eyes: She only knew her childhood's flowers Were happier pageantries! EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 239 And while the heralds played their part For million shouts to drown— «God save the Queen," from hill to mart- She heard through all, her beating heart, And turned and wept! She wept, to wear a crown. God save thee, weeping Queen, Thou Shalt be well beloved. The tyrant's sceptre cannot move As those pure tears have moved; The nature in thine eye we see, Which tyrants cannot own— The love that guardeth liberties; Strange blessing on the nation lies, Whose sov'reign wept. Yea, wept, to wear its crown. God bless thee, weeping Queen, With blessing more divine; And fill with better love than earth's That tender heart of thine; That when the thrones of earth shall he As low as graves, brought down, A pierced hand may give to thee, The crown which angels wept to see. Thou wilt not weep, To wear that heavenly crown. SIXTH EVENING. 16 (IEt)entttO0 UJitl) i\jt fotlB, SIXTH EVENING. As time passed on with the happy Christmas party at Derley Manor^ they seemed to enter every day with in- creasmg spirit into the various plans for the occupation of their tune, and above all into that scheme of poetic recreation which engaged the pleasant hours of candle- light, when they aH gathered round the large old fashioned Ubrary hearth, and, with curtains close drawn, and brightly flazing fire, competed together in the illustration of the beauties of the poets. Each successive leader of the evening's literary recreations, seemed to vie with his or her predecessors, ui aiming at the suggestion of some new theme of novelty or pecu- liar attraction. The choice of a sovereign for this evening fell on Thomas Merton, a lively youth, fresh from Eton, and entering with all the exuberance of youthful gaiety into the out-door sports of the fore- 244 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. noon, and the less boisterous amusements of the even- ing. Though he had been foremost in the shout and laughter of the merry troop of skaters, or the snow- ball parties during the day, he looked somewhat abashed on finding himself the object of all eyes in the library, and would probably have very willingly ex- changed his new throne with the quietest on-Iooker in some dark comer of the room. There was no choice, however, and so, mustering courage for his novel duties, he craved the attention of his auditors, in the following words, to a few gleanings from ^t SaikU fotts. I am afraid I may be thought to retrace the steps of my predecessor, who so pleasantly engaged your attention on a former evening, with illustrations of Poetic Humour. Though some, however, of the Sa- tiric Poets of England are the same as those who rank among the poetic humom-ists, their satiric composi- tions deserve a separate notice, as altogether distinct and important creations of the poet's pen. The pen of the satirist, though too frequently dipped in gall, has often been usefully employed as a moral agent for correcting and reforming errors that might have EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. proved unassailable by graver weapons, it Has accordingly been frequently made use of by the most earnest and serious of our poets. Chaucer uses it freely; the most eminent of our dramatic poets abundantly introduce it into their dialogues, and no English poet has oftener availed himself of this powerful weapon for the highest purposes of moral rebuke than the pious and gifted author of the "Task." Among professedly satiric poets, was Joseph Hall, Bishop of Norwich, and so little were his pungent en- forcement of moral duties by means of satire regarded as in any degree inconsistent with his high office in the church, that he acquired the name of the " Christian Seneca." Like many others of the poets, he had to en- dure numerous painful privations and sufferings during a long and strangely chequered career. He was elevated to the Bishopric of Norwich by Charles I. in 1641, and he shared in the fall of his royal patron. Having remained faithful to his royal master during the poli- tical troubles that succeeded, his whole property was sequestrated, and himself committed a prisoner to the Tower. Though he obtained deliverance from his dungeon, it was only to feel more severely the priva- tions consequent on his precarious position, and he 246 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. died at length in poverty and neglect, at the advanced age of eighty-two. Very different from this is the character of the more celebrated satirist, Dean Swift. In wit and genius he has rarely been surpassed, but he disgraced the char- acter of a minister of religion, alike by his want of principle in public and private life, and by the un- bridled license which he gave to his pen. The se- verity and bitterness of his later writings were m- creased by disappointed ambition, and at length he sunk into complete imbecility, and died leavir% behind him a character, whose selfishness and heartless contempt of moral obligations, are only the more manifest from the great genius to which they were allied. Among the systematic satirists, Pope deserves a pro- minent place, for his able retaliation on the rivals whom envy and spleen had raised up against him. Alex- ander Pope was born in London on the 22d of May, 1688. From his infancy he was characterised by ex- treme feebleness and delicacy of constitution, but his mind was as vigorous as his body was feeble. When only a schoolboy under twelve years of age, he amused hunself with poetic compositions of various kinds, the most elaborate of which was a play he constructed EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 247 from the Iliad. This was acted by his young school- fellows to his great delight, the part of Ajax, the Greek hero, being performed by the bulky gardener of the establishment. Pope wrote nearly all his best productions in very early life. At the age of sixteen his pastorals were produced ; at eighteen the Messiah appeared; and he was only twenty-five when he undertook the transla- tion of Homer's " Iliad." The applause which Pope won by his writings, stirred up the opposition of envious opponents, and a host of small critics kept up a series of petty attacks, which, notwithstanding then- insignificance, became annoying from the pertmacity of their initated authors. The poet at length determhied to retaliate on the waspishherd,andinl728,hepublishedthe"Dunciad," a satire which burst on his opponents like a thunder- bolt among a hedge flock of sparrows. The noisy host of Dunces were filled with dismay, and writhed under the stinging lash of their powerful opponent. Like other satirists, however, he was not very dis- crimatmg in his retaliation, and some of his most emi- nent contemporaries are made to figure among the tribe of Dunces. Pope's life was spent in his study and the only weapon he ever wielded was his pen. 248 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. His feeble constitution and growing infirmities early warned him of the uncertainty of human life; he expired on the 30th of May, 1744, having just com- pleted his fifty-sixth year. Other professed, or occasional satirists might readUy be selected from the Hst of English poets, but this biographic sketch may suffice to introduce us to the illustrations which aflford the best evidence of their wit and power. THE SATIRIC POETS. J THE SATIRIC POETS. JHiltoii. ON THE UNIVERSITY CAEEIEE, Wlio sickened at the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London by reason of the plague. Here Ues old Hobson; Death hath broke his gii-t, And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt; Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one, He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known, Death was half glad when he had got him down: For he had, anj time this ten years full. Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull: And surely Death could never have prevail'd. Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd; But lately finding him so long at home. And thinking now his journey's end was come, 252 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. And that he had ta'en up his latest inn; In the kind office of a chamberlain Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night, Puird off his boots, and took away the hght; If any ask for him, it shall be said, Hobson has supp'd, and 's newly gone to' bed. YOUTHFUL DESIRE OF TRAVEL. The brain-sick youth, that feeds his tickled ear With sweet-sauced lies of some false traveller, Which hath the Spanish Decades read awhile. Or whetstone leasings of old Mandeville, Now with discom-ses breaks his midnight sleep Of his adventures through the Indian deep; Of all their massy heaps of golden mine. Or of the antique tombs of Palestine, Or of Damascus' magic wall of glass; Of Solomon his sweating piles of brass, Of the bu'd rue that bears an elephant. Of mermaids that the southern seas do haunt, Of headless men, of savage cannibals. The fashions of their lives and govemals ; What monstrous cities there erected be, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 253 Cairo, or the city of the Trinity; Now are they dunghill cocks that have not seen The bordering Alps, or else the neighbour Rhine And now he plies the news-full Grasshopper, Of voyages and ventures to inquire. His land mortgaged, he sea-beat in the way, Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day; And now he deems his home-bred fare as lief As his parch'd biscuit, or his barrell'd beef. 'Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, 0 let me lead an academic life; To know much, and to think for nothing, know Nothing to have, yet think we have enow; In skill to want, and wanting seek for more; In weal nor want, nor wish for greater store. Envy, ye monarchs, with your proud excess, At our low saU, and our high happiness. THE HOLLOW INVITATION. The courteous citizen bade me to his feast, With hollow words, and overly request: « Come, will ye dine with me this holyday V I yielded, though he hoped I would say nay: For had I mayden'd it, as many use; Loath for to grant, bat leather to refuse— 254 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. "Alacke sir, I were loath; another day, — I should but trouble you;— pardon me if you may— No pardon should I need ; for, to depart He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart. Two words for monie, Darbishirian wise, (That's one too manie) is a naughtie guise. Who looks for double biddings to a feast. May dine at home for an importune guest. I went, then saw, and found the greate expense; The fare and fashions of our citizens. Oh, Cleoparical! what wanteth there For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheere ? Beefe, that erst Hercules held for finest fare: Porke for the fat Boeotian, or the hare For Martial; fish for the Venetian Goose-liver for the likorous Romane; Th' Athenian's goate; quaile, lolan's cheere; The hen for Esculape, and the Parthian deerej Grapes for Arcesilas, figs for Plato's mouth. And chesnuts faire for Amarillis' tooth. Hadst thou such cheere? wert thou ever there before Never. — I thought so: nor come there no more. Come there no more ; for so meant all that cost: Never hence take me for thy second host. For whom he means to make an often guest. One dish shall serve ; and welcome make the rest- EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. StDift. TO THE EAEL OF PETERBOROUGH: [O COMMANDED THE BKITISH FORCES IN SPATK MoBDANTO fiUs the trump of fame, The Christian worlds his deeds proclaim, And prints are crowded with his name. In journeys he outrides the post. Sits up till midnight with his host, Talks politics, and gives the toast; Knows every prince in Europe's face, Flies like a squib from place to place, And travels not, but runs a race. From Paris gazette a-la-maine, This day arrived without his train, Mordanto in a week from Spain. A messenger comes all a-reek, Mordanto at Madrid to seek; He left the town above a week. Next day the post-boy winds his hora, And rides through Dover in the morn: Mordanto's landed from Leghorn. 256 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Mordanto gallops on alone; The roads are with his followers strown; This breaks a girth, and that a bone. His body active as his mind. Returning sound in limb and wind, Except some leather lost behind. A skeleton in outward figure, His meagre corpse, though full of vigour Would halt behind him were it bigger. So wonderful his expedition. When you have not the least suspicion, He's with you like an apparition: Shines in all cKmates like a star; In senates bold and fierce in war ; A land commander and a tar: Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be matched in modern reading, But by his name-sake Charles of Sweden. THE PEOGEESS OF POETEY. The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has" fed without restraint or trouble. Grown fat with corn, and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill ; EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighbouring pool; Nor loudly cackles at the door; For cackUng shows the goose is poor. But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise and harder fare Soon make my dame grow lank and spare: Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the gi'ound, and upward springs While all the parish, as she flies, Hears sounds harmonious from the skies. Such is the poet fresh in pay (The third night's profits of his play ;) His morning draughts till noon can s\\i:i Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight. What poet e'er could take his flight? Or stuff 'd with phlegm up to the throat, What poet e'er could sing a note 1 Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed oppress'd, would break his girth. To raise the lumber from the earth. But view him in another scene. When all his drink is Hippocreup, 17 258 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years' coat so smooth and bare, Through every thread it lets in air; With hungry meals his body pined, Uis guts and belly full of wind; And, like a jockey for a race. His flesh brought down to flying case. Now his exalted spirit loaths Incumbrances of food and clothes ; And up he rises like a vapour. Supported high on wings of paper; He singing flies, and flying sings, WhUe from below all Grub-street rings. TIMON'S VILLA. Ax Timon's Villa let us pass a day. Where all cry out, " What sums are thrown aw a} !*' So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air. Soft and Agreeable come never there. (Ireatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 259 To compass this, his building is a Town, His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down: Who but must laugh, the Master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around ! The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground. Two Cupids squirt before: a Lake behind Improves the keenness of the Northern wind. His Gardens next your admiration call ; On every side you look, behold the Wall ! No pleasing Intricacies, intervene, No artful Wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother. And half the platform just reflects the other. The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees ! With here a Fountain, never to be play'd; And there a Summer-house that knows no shade ; , ,.y, Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowei-s; There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers; Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn. And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty Urn. My Lord advances with majestic mien, Smif with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But soft — by regular approach — not yet — First through the length of yon hot Terrace sweat; And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your thighsj Just at his Study door he'll bless your eyes. 260 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. His Study! with what Authors it is stored? In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round; These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Lo, some are Vellum, and the rest as good For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood, For Locke or Milton, *tis in vain to look, These shelves admit not any modern book. And now the Chapel's silver bell you hear. That summons you to all the Pride of Prayer: Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare. Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie. And bring all Pai'adise before your eye. To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite. Who never mentions Hell to ears polite. But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall: The rich Beaufet well-colour'd Serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room ? No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb. A solemn Sacrifice perform'd in state. You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. EYBNINGS WITH THE POETS. 261 Between each Act the trembUng salvers ring, From soup to sweet wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantalized in state, And complaisantly help'd to all I hate; Treated, careas'd, and tired, I take my leave, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, And swear no day was ever past so ill. THE LITEEARY PATRON. Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill; Fed with soft Dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand and hand in song. His Library (where busts of Poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head) Received of wits an undistinguish'd race, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place, Much they extoU'd his pictures, much his seat, And flatter'd every day, and some days eat; Till grown more frugal in his riper days. He paid some bards with port, and some with praise ; To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd. And others (harder still) he paid in kind. Dryden alone (what wonder ?) came not nigh, Dryden alone escaped his judging eye: 262 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS, Rut still the great have kindness in reserve — He help*d to bury whom he help'd to stai*ve. EPISTLE TO A LADY ON HER TASSION FOR OLD CHINA. What ecstaeies her bosom fire! How her eyes languish with desire! How blest, how happy, should I be, Were that fond glance bestow'd on me New doubts and fears within me war, What rival's near ? — a china jar. China's the passion of her soul: A cup a plate, a dish, a bowl. Can kindle wishes in her breast, Inflame with joy, or break her rest. Some gems collect; some medals prize, And view the rust with lovers' eyes; Some court the stars at midnight hom's; Some doat on Nature's charms in flowers: J^ut every beauty I can trace la f. aura's mind, in Laura's face; EVENUTGS WITH THE POETS. 263 My stars are in this brighter sphere. My lily and my rose is here. Philosophers, more grave than wise, Hvmt science down in butterflies; Or, fondly poring on a spider, Stretch human contemplation \vider. Fossils give joy to Galen's soul; He digs for knowledge, like a mole; In shells so learn'd that all agree No fish that swims knows more than he ' In such pursuits if wisdom lies. Who, Laura, shall thy taste despise ! When I some antique jar behold. Or white, or blue, or speck'd with gold; Vessels so pure, and so refined, Appear the types of womankind : Are they not valued for their beauty, Too fair, to fine, for household duty 1 With flowers and gold and azure dyed. Of every house the grace and pride? How white, how polish'd is their skin. And valued most when only seen ! She, who before was highest prized, Is for a crack or flaw despised. I grant they're frail; yet they're so rare. The treasure cannot cost too dear ! 264 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. But man is made of coarser stuff, And serves convenience well enough ; He's a strong earthen vessel, made For drudging, labour, toil, and trade; And when wives lose their other self, With ease they bear the loss of delf. Husbands, more covetous than sage, Condemn this china-buying rage; They count that woman's prudence little, Who sets her heart on things so brittle. But are those wise men's inclinations Fix'd on more strong, more sure foundations If all that's frail we must despise. No human view or scheme is wise. Are not ambition's hopes as weak ? They swell like bubbles, shine, and break. A courtier's promise is so slight, ' Tis made at noon, and broke at night. The man who loves a country life Breaks all the comfort of his wife; And if he quit his farm and plough, His wife in town may break her vow. Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm. For each new winter breaks a charm; And woman's not like china sold. But cheaper grows in growing old; Then quickly choose the prudent part, Or else you break a faithful heart. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 265 Sm0lUtt. SONG ON AN ARROGANT COLLEGK TUTOR, WHOSE FATHER HAD BEEN & BRICKLAYER, AND WHOSE MOTHER SOLD PIES. Come listen, ye students of every degree, I sing of a wit and a tutor perdie, A statesmen profound, and critic immense, In short, a mere jumble of learning and sense; And yet of his talents though laudably vain, His own family arts he could never attain. His father intending his fortune to build, In his youth would have taught him the trowel to wield, But the mortar of discipline never would stick, For his skull was secured by a facing of brick; And with all his endeavours of patience and pain. The skill of his sire he could never attain. His mother, a housewife, neat, artful, and wise, Renown'd for her delicate biscuit and pies. Soon alter'd his studies, by flattering his taste, From the raising of wall to the rearing of paste; But all her instructions were fruitless and vain. The pie-making mystery he ne'er could attain. 266 EVEITINGS WITH THE POETS. Yet true to his race, in his labours were seen A jumble of both their professions, I ween; For when his own genius he ventured to trust. His pies seem'd of brick, and his houses of crust Then, good Mr. Tutor, pray be not so vain, Since your family arts you could never attain. LAST EYENIXG. (EDetttttos mxi\i i\it foets. LAST EYENING, The Evenings at tlie old Elizabethan Manor of Derley in Bedford glided on in pleasant succession, one after another, each of the happy circle vying with their neighbours in the friendly rivalry of being monarch of the merriest, the most attractive, or most delightful evening of the season. Young and old were each in their turn called upon to fulfil the pleasant duties of an evening's reign, till at length, when Christmas Eve came round, every member of the happy circle, guests and entertainers, had borne their share in the cares and duties of royalty. When they met once more in the same old Library, with the yule-log blazing and sparkling on the hearth, and shedding its ruddy light on the pleasant faces that gathered round it, it became matter of grave discus- sion among the younger members of the party what 270 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. was now to be done for a sovereign of the evening, to wind up their literary commonwealth and leave them free to resolve on now plans and other pastimes for Christmas week. Changes, however, had taken place among the happy guests of Derley Manor, since they assembled together in its old halls towards the close of November. It was not that every tree was long since leafless, and every pleasant glade and rambling footpath buried beneath the protracted snows of an unusually severe winter; though the changes of the season had not been without their effects on Mr. and Mrs. Howard's guests. One result that had especially flowed from them was, that the whole party had been almost exclusively confined to in-door pleasures, and consequently had been much more thrown together than they needed to have been, had the weather admitted of such long rambles as they had been tempted to take when they first arrived at the old mansion. Whether this forced confinement to such straitened limits, and the necessity of seeking enjoyment exclu- sively in one another's society, had anything to do with the events that followed, we shall not attempt to decide. Certain it is, that when, on the second evening of these poetic pastimes at Derley Manor, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 271 Miss Caroline Howard signalized her abdication of the HoUy Crown by placing it on the head of her cousin Alfred Dudley, sundry grave heads might have been seen shaking with more -of curious fancy than disapprobation, and a few of the older folks in quiet corners might have been observed to smile, as though they knew a great deal more than they chose at present to tell. What all these sagacious nods and smiles exactly meant began after a while to be sur- mised by the dullest or most thoughtless of the party. Every now and then some romping young Miss or Master, or even occasionally their more staid and elderly companions, would stumble unexpectedly on the two cousms in some quiet corner of the house, occasioning thereby an amount of blushing awkward- ness, and hesitating explanation, which often seemed to be a great deal more than the occasion required. Even in the Library, of an evening, it was a chance that seemed very frequently occuring for both of them to get seated somehow in the same deep window recess, or other retired corner, and it was even hinted by one roguish young romp of fifteen that they had been seen to steal a kiss wlien nobody was supposed to be looking that way. Leaving, however, all sur- mises and speculations on disputed points out of the 272 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. question, certain it is that long before Christmas Eve arrived it had become an undoubted case of pure love- attachment between the cousins; and friends being agreeable, and parents consenting, it had been decided, that, as Colonel Howard looked forward to the pro- bability of being speedily recalled to active duties, the young couple should be married on Christmas day, by the good old Kector, at the Parish Church of Ampthill. All was excitement, accordingly, at Derley Manor. Though the same evening pastimes as we have record- ed, had been nightly renewed in the Library, many other matters had latterly divided the attention and pre-occupied the thoughts of the assembled friends. Dresses too had to be made, and fashions to be discussed . The bridesmaids considered their wreaths, lace, and veils, as all matters scarcely more essential to the approaching bridal ceremony than the clergyman's official services, or, perhaps, even than the presence of the bride herself. Much, therefore, had to be thought, said, and most gravely discussed, in anticipation of the important event, so that latterly the evening meetings in the Library had become, to the fair members of the party at least, rather an occasion of relaxation from engrossing duties, than a period in EYEXINGS WITH THE POETS. 273 which their inventive powers or abilities were to be taxed for the general entertainment. Such was the state of things at Derley Manor when the party once more assembled in the Library on Christmas Eve, and it will not greatly surprise the reader to learn, that when the first noise and bustle of discussion was over, all unanimously agreed to the proposition of Fanny Edwards, a rosy-cheeked, laughing little miss, whose turn to be Queen of the Evening had only come at last, to her great joy, on the previous night, and who now insisted — despite the rule of alternation of Kmg and Queen — that Caroline Howard, the bride of the morrow, should be re-elected to the throne she had been the first to fill. The expectant bridesmaids of the coming Christmas- day's weddiug-service, gathered round the re-elected Queen immediately, like so many maids of honour ready to wait upon her throne. The bridegroom elect came forward with an oflfer of his services also, but was laughmgly repulsed by his cousin Emma Howard, the youngest of her sister's bridesmaids, who told him, to the great delight of the more youthful members of the Derley Commonwealth, that he must go and practice the obedience of a dutiful subject and servitor of Queen Caroline, and that it would be quite time ■ 18 274 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. enough when the Rector presented Caroline Dudley to him, for liim to take such liberties as he was now inchned to do. The fair Queen blushed, amid her smiles, at the lively salUes of her merry young sister, and Alfred had to content himself with retreat- ing to a dark comer, where he could watch with quiet delight, every look and word of the lovely Monarch of the Evenuig. It was some little time before Caroline Howard recovered her wonted composure, and still longer before she could succeed in restormg order and subjec- tion to her noisy subjects, who were so full of antici- pations of the coming services of the morrow, that they seemed to long for some more active mode of manifesting their joyous regard for their fan: Queen than the mere silent attention of dutiful subjects. Order, however, being at length restored, Queen Caro- line addressed them as follows: — " When last I occupied this place of honour among you, and set the example that has guided us so pleas- antly thi-ough many a winter evenmg around this cheerful blazing hearth, some objections, I remem- ber, were started by several of my younger subjects, to the choice which I made of our good old poets Spenser, Sidney, and Raleigh. These objections were EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 275 not, 1 think, long entertained by them, and some of my successors have kept me in countenance, by lead- ing you in like manner among the ancient worthies of England's poetic dynasty, in the assurance that the greatest works of modem poets will not be found to surpass in excellence these fruits of inspiration be- queathed to us by elder bards. Nevertheless, that I may escape all risk of being charged with an antiquated and dry old-fashioned taste, and with the desire, more- over, of following the good example of those whom I have now to look back upon as my predecessors, in endeavouring to secure for my evening's reign as much novelty and variety as any of them have succeeded in securing during their occupancy of this throne, I shall invite your attention to the Beauties of the more Modern Poets. The subject is one which cannot fail to furnish ample room and verge enough for every variety of taste. Year by year, indeed, we see old favourites pass away from us, to rank, according to their degree in the impartial judgment of posterity, among the great departed. Southey is at rest amid his old Cumberland hills, and Campbell "deeps the sleep that knows no waking," among the noble and the mighty that lie side by side beneath the lofty aisles of Westminster Abbey. Mrs Hemans, too, is 276 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. laid at rest in the Green Isle, secure from all life's cares, and Miss Landonlies calm and undisturbed in her solitary and distant grave. But, while their works sur- vive them, others are rising to take their places. Miss Barrett still pens her nervous and beautiful lines, full of masculine vigour and feminine delicacy of sympathy; and Baillie gives promise, in his ' Festus,' of poetic hon- ours for the nineteenth century worthy to compare with the Elizabethan era, or with those of the great poet of the Commonwealth. From these then I invite your selection, with the assurance of gathering from their writings a treat no less delightful than those we have owed to older bards. Before proceeding, however, with this I shall endeavour to give you some little account of three of our greatest modern poets,— namely, Scott, Wordsworth, and Burns." Scott. Sir Walter Scott must be regarded as the great re- presentative name in the department of the romantic | ballad poetry of Scotland. Long before he was sus- pected of being the author of those wonderful romances, under the name of the " Waverley Novels," which took the world so much by surprise in the earlier part of the present century, his name was widely identified with the ballad poetry of his country. In his various works EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 277 of this sort he portrayed with singular felicity both the physical features and the social peculiarities of the Border people of Scotland, as well as of those who dwelt in the more inaccessible and mountainous districts. These works are now in every one's hands, and, although not of the highest order of poetry, are pervaded by a truthfulness to nature, and a romance of circumstance and action which must preserve their popularity for an indefinite period. Like most great poets. Sir Walter Scott was possessed of deep and genuine humour, — a quality which appears most strikingly in the greater part of his novels. Who has not been delighted with this in such characters as Caleb Balderstone, Bailie Nicol Jarvie, Edie Ochiltree, the Laird of Dumbiedykes, and many others. In most of his novels, indeed, his humour flows more or less exuberantly, and constitutes one of their principal charms ; and although this does not appear to such an extent in his poetry, even that is not without many touches of humour. His poem, in particular, *' Sultaun Solimaun's Search after Happiness," is, from beginning to end, instinct with genuine humour, describing, as it does, with much subtilty of discrimination, the differen- tial qualities and habits of the various countries through which the morose Snltan passes in his search ; the whole pointing a moral which it would be of importance for both nations and individuals to lay to heart, — that 278 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. happiness is more within than without, and by no means so dependent on external circumstances as we are apt to suppose. Although bom in Edinburgh, and closely connected with it all his days, his favourite resi- dence was Abbotsford, on the banks of the Tweed. Melrose Abbey, Dryburgh Abbey (where his honoured dust reposes), and the beautiful localities adjacent, were his cherished haunts, and are for ever identified with his name. Beautifully picturesque in themselves, they have received an added charm from this circumstance, and will continue to be frequented by multitudes from every quarter while the English language exists, and genius is honoured among men. When Abbotsford first became the property of Sir Walter Scott, in 1811, it possessed very little indeed to attract the eye,— the estate being a bleak and uninterest- ing tract of land, with only a small farm-house upon it, called Cartley Hole. As a mansion, it owed its existence to the taste and invention of its illustrious owner ; and, as he proceeded after no very fixed plan, but added to it from time to time, and incorporated with it objects of vertu and of antiquarian interest as he happened to obtain them, it ultimately assumed a very bizarre and abnormal character— a " romance," as it has been called, " in stone and lime." It stands on a shelving piece of ground between the public road and the Tweed. The principal parts are, the Entrance Hall, the Armory, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 279 the Dining-room (in which Sir Walter died), and the Library, a magnificent apartment of sixty feet by fifty, and containing about 20,000 volumes. The Study is also worthy of notice, as the scene of his labours while, in the zenith of his powers, he was throwing off those marvellous productions which have made his name immortal. The Abbey of Melrose, about two miles from Abbotsford, a favourite haunt of the poet, and a source to him, no doubt, of unceasing delight, is one of the finest architectural remains in Scotland. The monks of the Cistercian order, to whom it owed its existence, were distinguished for their taste in decorative archi- tecture, and evidently gave full scope to their powers in connection with this structure. All its parts are in admirable keeping, and it proves a delightful study to the artist or connoisseur. The description of it by moon- light, given in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," is well known, and has been the means of directing the foot- steps of many a pilgrim to the spot, although it is rathei remarkable (if indeed a fact) that Sir Walter should have drawn the description, as it is said, rather from fancy than from actual observation, as he is not known to have visited it by moonlight himself. On the left , bank of the Tweed, opposite St. Boswell's, stands Dry- borough Abbey, another interesting object in connection with the poet. It was founded in 1150. There is con- siderable architectural beauty in the parts which remain, 280 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 1 especially St. Mary's Aisle, in which the dust of the poet lies. From this brief notice of Sir Walter Scott I shall now pass to — This must be regarded as a great representative name in the gallery of modern poets. His influence has been | as gi-eat as the acknowledgment of his merits on the part of the critics was tardy. He inaugurated a new i era in English poetry ; and although he had a long and hard battle to fight, for the acceptance both of his theory and of his poetry, he did not pass away from the world without seeing the latter at least, whether liter- ally carrying out his theory or no, rising into general recognition, and filling a wide space in the world's eye. William Wordsworth, second son of John Wordsworth, attorney-at-law, and law agent to Sir John Lowther, afterwards Earl of Lonsdale, was born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, April 7th, 1770. His mother was the only daughter of a mercer in Penrith, William Cookson. His ancestors were originally from the same district, so that in respect of pedigree Wordsworth must be con- sidered as strictly belonging to the north of England. The other members of the family were three brothers, Richard, John, and Christopher; and one sister, Doro- thy, between whom and the poet the most lively sym- EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 281 pathy existed, and who proved a worthy companion and aid to him amid the labours and struggles of his early life. The commencement of his education was not in the happiest style. His mother died when he was only eight years of age, and his father when he was thirteen. He learned his letters at a dame's school in Penrith, and was afterwards sent, along with his brothers, to a public school at Hawkeshead, in Lanca- shire. At this school he remained for several years, during which time he informs us he was allowed very much to read what he chose, and to wander about the neighbouring fields at his pleasure. His reading, as we might have expected in the circumstances, ran into the ordinary track of romance and travels, Don Quixote, Gil Bias, Gulliver, &c., being among his favourite works. Still, he made some progress in Latin and mathematics. On the death of his father, in 1783, he was transferred by his uncles to Cambridge, and was a student of St. John's College there for about four years. Although he never greatly liked college life, and was far from having a lively sympathy with the formality which reigned in the university, it proved nevertheless the awakening time of his faculties — the time at which he began really to think — ^to turn over the great problems of life, and to feel that he had within him the capacities of a poet. His love of the country, in all its sights and sounds, was even now a dominant passion, and in order to gratify it he was 282 EVENINGS WITH THE POET«. accustomed to spend his summer vacations in pedestrian tours. One of these tours happened to be through France and Switzerland at the very time of the French Revolution,— a circumstance which gave a considerable colour to his after thoughts and writings. He took his degi-ee in 1791, and again visited France while the stirring scenes of the Revolution were being enacted. His young and ardent spirit caught at the name of Liberty, and he became an enthusiastic sympathizer in the movements of the day. His enthusiasm indeed was such, that circumstances alone prevented him from carrying out his intention of becoming a naturalized Frenchman and throwing himself into the scenes of the Revolution ; in which case, as he afterwards admitted, he would very probably have become one of the early vic- tims of Robespierre. From 1792 to 1795 Wordsworth passed his time in a rather aimless and desultory manner in London, and elsewhere in England,— his friends being not a little disappointed that he was not giving himself to preparation for the Church, as they expected he would. Poetry, however, was f£«st taking the place of republicanism in his mind, or rather, establishing itself beside it. He ventured for the first time into print in 1793, when he published his " Evening Walk," and his " Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pedestrian Tour among tlie Alps." His success was by no means great, and, his means of subsistence being small, he formed the EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. 283 resolution of betaking himself to the law, and to news- paper writing. This was happily prevented by the be- quest of ^8900 from a young friend named Calvert, as a token of his regard and admiration, and from a desire that he would consecrate his powers to poetry. In ihb way Wordsworth and his sister (who came to reside with him about this time) were rendered inde- pendent of any ungenial occupation for several years, when, singularly enough, the debt of £8500 due to his father by the Lonsdale estate was paid up, which again saved him from the necessity of engaging in any occu- pation incompatible with the cultivation of the great passion of his soul, and consequently with the fulfilling of his important mission on earth. After living some years at Racedown Lodge, in Dorsetshire, where he wrote his "Salisbury Plain," and commenced his tragedy of " The Borderers" (although they were not published for a considerable period thereafter), he repaired to Gras- mere, where he lived from 1799 till 1808, and where, from the interesting meetings of that bright galaxy of kindred spirits, Coleridge, Be Quincy, Wilson, &c., they received from the hostile critics the designation of the Lake School. It was while residing in this district that he had the great battle to fight for that acceptance which he has since obtained ;— Jeffrey, through the Edinburgh Eeview, assailing every successive work with new acces- sions of vehemence, while the poet held on in the even 284 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. tenor of his way, unmoved from his complacency, or from the convictions of his mind, by all the assaults which were made upon him. He took up his abode at Rydal Mount in the year 1813. This was his residence till his death, making allowance, however, for numerous tours in various countries,— Scotland, Holland, and Belgium, North Wales, Ireland, the Rhine, &c. He lived to a good old age, having died at Rydal Mount in 1850, when he had just completed his eightieth year. He was buried in the church-yard of Grasmere ; but his name is engraven on every object and form of nature around, and shall long be felt to be the pervading presence of that beautiful and romantic region. It has been very properly said that Wordsworth ap- peared not only as a new poet, but also as the repre- sentative and champion of a new theory of poetry. He believed that for a long period poetry in England had been false, or comparatively worthless, both in subject aiid style, and he earnestly gave himself to the intro- ducing of a truer form of art. His views have been well summed np in the following words :— " Poetry takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity. What the poet chiefly does, or ought to do, is to represent, out of real life, scenes and passions of an affecting or exciting character. Now, men usually, placed in such scenes, or agitated by such passions, use a nervous and exquisite laiigmige, expressly adapted for the occasion by nature EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 285 itself ; and the poet, therefore, in imitating such scenes and passions, will recall them more vividly in propor- tion as he can succeed in employing the same language. Only one consideration should operate in making him modify that language, — the consideration, namely, that his business as a poet is to give pleasure. All such words or expressions, therefore, as, though natural in the original transaction of a passionate scene, would be unpleasant or disgusting in the poetical rehearsal, must be omitted. Pruned and weeded in accordance with this negative rule, any description of a moving occuiv rence, whether in prose or in verse, would be true poetry. But to secure still more perfectly their great end of giving pleasure, while they excite emotion, poets use the artificial assistance of metre and rhyme." But it is time for me now to give you a few particulars on the last and, in some respects, the most remarkable of the three— namely, Robert Burns. Inrns. The name of Burns is more than any other identified with the poetry of Scotland, of which country, indeed, he was the great national bard. He was born on the 25th day of January, 1759, in a humble cottage, about two miles south from the town of Ayr. His father, William Burns, was gardener and overseer to a gentle- 286 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. man of smaU estate. To strict religious principle he added a considerable degree of penetration and know- ledge of the world,-qualities in which his mother also was not deficient, while she was possessed of an inex- haustible amount of traditional and legendary lore, which she habitually brought to bear upon the fervid imagina- tion of her son. The principal part of his education was received at the hands of Mr. John Murdoch, a conscien- tious and efficient teacher, and under whom he made very considerable progress. As he approached the age of fourteen he was actively employed in the working of the farm, and speedily became one of the most vigorous workmen upon it. Shortly after this the family re- moved to Lochlea, in Tarbolton,-a locality which was not so favourable for the cultivation of his mind. His poetical aspirations suffered something like collapse for a time, although at intervals he did not fail to produce some pieces worthy of his fame. His attempt to better his circumstances by flax-dressing at Irvine was the opposite of successful, and the taking fire of his shop led him to abandon the attempt, when he returned to his father's house a loser of all that he had. While he was at Irvine befell in with the poems of Ferguson, which exerted a considerable influence on his mind, and, as has been remarked, " determined the Scottish charac ter of his poetry." On the death of his father he, along with his brother, took a sub-lease of the farm of Moss- EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 287 giel, where he resided four years. The fame of his great conversational powers, added to his poetical gifts, speedily gave him a local celebrity which made his society to be coveted even by the more important person- ages in the neighbourhood. He had produced some pieces, chiefly in the satiric vein, which still further added to his fame ; and he was rapidly becoming, if indeed he had not already become, one of the greatest I celebrities of the district. But misfortune was at hand. The farm of Mossgiel did not succeed ; which circum- stance, together with other matters of a more tender and delicate nature, led him to think of emigrating to Jamaica. In order to provide himself with the necessary funds, he was persuaded to publish a volume of his poems ; which not only produced an immense sensation in the west of Scotland, but also in Edinburgh, and whithersoever the volume was conveyed. At the instance of Dr. Blacklock he repaired to Edinburgh shortly after this, and speedily became the most popular man in the northern capital. His society was courted by men of the highest eminence in rank and in learning ; and his conversational powers, which were said to be even more remarkable than his poetry, gratified and surprised all who enjoyed them. They are noticed in the following terms in a work of standard value :— " In conversation he displayed a sort of intuitive quickness and rectitude of judgment upon every subject that arose. The sensi- 288 EVENINGS -WITH THE POETS. ^tyof his^Vieart, and the vivacity of his fancy, gave a rich colouring to whatever opinions he was disposed to advance ; and his language was thus not less happy m his conversation than in his writings." His sojourn in Edinburgh, however, was by no means conducive to his ultimate welfare. Such a constant round of gaiety, in which he must have felt himself to be the principal party, the cynosure of all eyes, could not fail to have a deteriorating effect upon one of such ardent tempera- ment and lively sympathies. His next step wa. to visit the Border country, and some towns considerably south of the Tweed, after which he returned to Mossgiel, when his marriage with Jane Armour was effected, and he took a lease of the farm of EUiesland. Previous to this he had obt^ned an appointment in the Excise, which rendered it necessary for him to spend six weeks of the summer at Ayr. There can be no doubt that this busi- ness, with the temptations to which it of necessity ex- posed him, was one of the gi-eatest stumbling-blocks that ever came in the way of the poet, as it was the principal means of inducing habits of excess which were to be re- conciled neither with health nor morality. His fame wa^ wide spread,hispopularitywas immense, andthesnare of pleasant society was waiting for him wherever he arrived. We need not wonder much that in these circumstances Burns should have occasionally forgotten himself, and given way to indulgence beyond the due bounds of EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 289 reason and sobriety. Occasionally, however, he con- tinued his pen, giving to the world some of his beautiful lyrics, and about the same time that poem of truly marvellous power, " Tam o' Shanter." He gave up his farm altogether in 1791, and repaired to the town of Dumfries as an officer of Excise, at the small salary of £70 per annum. In 1792, when con- siderable political feeling prevailed, he gave olfence to some by his ardour and independence on the Liberal side; notwithstanding of which, however, he did not lose the means of his support, since he was acting as supervisor immediately previous to his death. It is rather a singular fact, that, notwithstanding his excesses, his mental powers seem to have been in no wise weak- ened. It was during his residence at Dumfries that he produced most of his beautiful lyrics. His connection with George Thomson at this time began ; and he seems to have allowed few days to pass without the production of some stanzas towards that collection of national melodies which Mr, Thomson contemplated. Early in his life symptoms appeared of some gi-ave disorder in the constitution of Burns, chiefly affecting the digestive organs and the heart. In the autumn of 1795 his only daughter died, which proved a great blow to his spirits. An illness came upon him more severe than usual, and before he had entirely recovered from it, a rash exposure of himself brought on a fresh accession 19 290 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. of cold, from which he never recovered. After lingering fur some months, he expired on the 21st of July 1796, being only in the thirty-seventh year of his age. His remains were carried to the grave on the 26tTi of the same month, attended by about 10,000 people, of all ranks, and many of them from distant parts of the country. Thus did this great poet of Scotland pass away, at a time when his powers had just reached their maturity, and when even greater things than he had yet done might have been expected of him. The critiques upon his poetry are so numerous that it is quite unnecessary to add to them here. He is universally admitted to have been one of the truest and greatest of modern poets ; and the influence of his writings upon the nation to which he belonged it would be difficult to estimate, and almost impossible to exaggerate. The extraordi- nary sensation produced in January 1859, in the celebra- tion of his centenary, is sufficient indication of the posi- tion he holds in the nation's heart. In various parts of the country monuments have been erected in honour of his name, among which may be mentioned that near the Calton Hill, Edmburgh, and that on the banks of the Doon in Ayrshire. But he has a more precious and a more lasting monument than either in the hearts of his countrymen, who remember him with delight where- ever their lot is cast. I must not, however, detain you lonm- from tlie Beauties of our Modern Poets. BEAUTIES OF MODERN POETS. BEAUTIES OF MODERN POETS. Sco\U LOCH CORISKIN. A WHILE their route they silent made, As men who stalk for mountain-deer, Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, " St. Mary ! what a scene is here ! I've traversed many a mountain- strand, Abroad and in my native land, And it has been my lot to tread "Where safety more than pleasure led ; Thus many a waste I've wander'd o'er, Clomb many a crag, cross'd many a moor. But by my halidome, A scene so rude, so wild as this. Yet so sublime in barrenness. Ne'er did my wandering footsteps presa. Where'er I happ'd to roam." EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. No marvel thus the Monarch spake : For rarely human eye has known A scene so stem as that dread lake. With its dark ledge of barren stone. Seems that primeval earthquake's sway Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way Through the rude bosom of the hill. And that each naked precipice. Sable ravine, and dark abyss. Tells of the outrage still. The wildest glen, but this, can show Some touch of Nature's genial glow. On high Benmore green mosses grow. And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, And copse on Cruchan-Ben ; But here, — above, around, below. On mountain or in glen. Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power. The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown. Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, As if were here denied The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew. That clothe with many a varied hue The bleakest mountain-side. And wilder, forward as they wound, Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 295 Huge terraces of granite black Afforded rude and cumber'd track ; For from the mountain hoar, Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear. When yell'd the wolf and fled the deer. Loose crags had toppled o'er ; And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay, So that a stripling arm might sway A mass no host conld raise, In Nature's rage at random thrown. Yet trembling like the Druid's stone On its precarious base. Lord of the Isles. VIEW OF EDINBURGH FROM BLACKFORD HILL. Still oh the spot Lord Marmion stay'd. For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. When sated with the martial show That peopled all the plain below. The wandering eye could o'er it go. And mark the distant city glow With gloomy splendour red ; For on the smoke- wreaths, huge and slow. That round her sable turrets flow. The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud. Like that which streaks a thuncter-cioucL 296 EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height Where the huge Castle holds its state. And all the steep slope down. Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky. Piled deep and massy, close and high, — Mine own romantic town ! But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays ; And as each heathy top they kissed, It gleamed a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw. Here Preston-Bay and Berwick- Law ; And, broad between them roU'd, The gallant Frith the eye might note. Whose islands on its bosom float. Like emeralds chased in gold. Nor less," he said,—" when looking forth, I view yon Empress of the North Sit on her hilly throne ; Her palace's imperial bowers. Her castle, proof to hostile powers, Her stately halls and holy towers- " Marmion. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 297 APPAKITION TO KING- JAMES IV. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 1513. The Herald bard* Said, Marmion might his toil have spared, In travelling so far ; For that a messenger from Heaven In vain to James had counsel given Against the English war ; And, closer question 'd, thus he told A tale, which chronicles of old In Scottish story have enroU'd : — SIR DAVID LINDESAY's TALE. ** Of all the palaces so fair, Bunt for the royal dwelling. In Scotland, far beyond compare Linlithgow is excelling ; And in its park in jovial June How sweet the merry linnet's tune. How blithe the blackbird's lay ! The wild -buck beUs from ferny brake. The coot dives merry on the lake. * Sir David Lindesay, Lord Lion King-at-Arms, who witnessed the event. 298 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. The saddest heart might pleasure take To see all nature gay. But J une is to our sovereign dear The heaviest month in all the year : Too well his cause of grief you know, — June saw his father's overthrow. Woe to the traitors, who could bring The princely boy against his king ! Still in his conscience bums the sting. In offices as strict as Lent King James's June is ever spent. When last this ruthful month was come. And in Linlithgow's holy dome The king, as wont, was praying ; While, for his royal father's soul. The chanters sung, the bells did toll, The bishop mass was saying — For now the year brought round again The day the luckless king was slain — In Katherine's aisle the monarch knelt. . With sackcloth shirt and iron belt, And eyes with sorrow streaming ; Around him in their stalls of state, The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate. Their banners o'er them beaming. I too was there, and, sooth to tell. Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell. Was watching where the sunbeams fell. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 209 Through the stain 'd casement gleaming; But, while I mark'd what next befell. It seem'd as I were dreaming. Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight, In azure gown, with cincture white ; His forehead bald, his head was bare, Down hung at length his yellow hair.— Now, mock me not, when, good my lord, I pledge to you my knightly word, That, when I saw his placid grace. His simple majesty of face. His solemn bearing, and his pace So stately gliding on, — Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint So just an image of the Saint Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint, — The loved Apostle John. " He stepp'd before the monarch's chair. And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made; Nor head nor body bow'd nor bent. But on the desk his arm he leant, And words like these he said. In a low voice, but never tone So thrill 'd through vein, and nerve, and bone :- * My mother sent me from afar. Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — Woe waits on thine array ; son EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. If war tliou wilt, of woman fair, Her witching wiles and wanton snare, James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware : God keep tbee as he may !' The wond'ring monarch seem'd to seek For answer, and found none ; And when he raised his head to speak, The monitor was gone. " Marmion. THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS; OB, THE QUEST OP SULTAUN SOLIMAIJN. PART I. THE COUNSEL OP TRAVEL. In the far eastern clime, no great while since. Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince. Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round, Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground ; Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase, " Sultaun ! thy vassal hears, and he obeys !" All have their tastes— this may the fancy strike Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like ; For me, I love the honest heart and warm Of Monarch who can amble round his farm, Or, when the toil of state no more annoys. EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. In chimney corner seek domestic joys, TMs Solimaun Serendib had in sway — And where's Serendib ? may some critic say Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart. Scare not my Pegasus before I start ] If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map. Famed mariner ! whose merciless narrations Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience. Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter. He deign'd to teU them over to a porter — The last edition see, by Long and Co., Eees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row. Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction — This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction— (A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, To raise the spirits and reform the juices, — Sovereign specific for all sorts of gures In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours), The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter, Or cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter — Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams "With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themea Belonging to the MoUah's subtle craft, I wot not — ^but the Sultaun never laugh 'd. Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy That scorn'd all remedy — profane or holy: In his long list of melancholies, mad. Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so bad. 302 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried. As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room ; More and yet more in deep array appear. And some the front assail, and some the rear , Their remedies to reinforce and vary Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary ; Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labour, Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre. There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches To rid the palace of those learned leeches. These counsels sage availed not a whit, And so the patient (as is not uncommon Where grave physicians lose their time and wit) Resolved to take advice of an old woman ; His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous, And still was called so by each subject duteous. Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest. Or only made believe, I cannot say — But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest, By dint of magic amulet or lay ; And, when all other skill in vain was shown. She deem'd it fitting time to use her own. " Sympathia magica hath wonders done," (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son), " It works upon the fibres and the pores, And thus, insensibly, our health restores. And it must help us here.— Thou must endure EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 303 The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can, The inmost vesture of a happy man, — I mean his shirt, my son ; which, taken warm. And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm, Bid every current of your veins rejoice. And your dull heart leap light as shepherd boy's." Such was the counsel from his mother came ; — I know not if she had some under-game. As doctors have, who bid their patients roam And live abroad, when sure to die at home ; Or if she thought that, somehow or another, Queen-Eegent sounded better than Queen-Mother. But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it). That such was her advice — ^the Sultaun took it. All are on board — the Sultaun and his train, In gilded galley prompt to plough the main. PART n. — FRANCE AND ENGLAND. If Happiness you seek, to tell you truly. We think she dwells with one GHovanni Bulli ; A tramontane, a heretic— the buck, Poffaredio ! still has aP the luck ; By land or ocean never strikes his flag; And then — a perfect walking money-bag. Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode. But first took France — it lay upon the road. S04 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean, Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what aU'd him. Only the glory of his house had fail'd him ; Besides, some tumours on his noddle hiding Gave indication of a recent hiding. Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless, Thought it a thing indelicate and needless To ask, if at that moment he was happy. And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a Loud voice mustered up, for " Vive le Roil" Then whisper'd, " Ave you any news of Nappy ?" The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question,— " Pray can you tell me aught of one J ohn Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool ?" The query seem'd of difficult digestion, — The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough. Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers, (Ere liberal Fashion spoiled both lace and lawn. And bade the veil of modesty be drawn). Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, ** Jean Bool ! — I vas not know him — yes, I vas— I vas remember dat, von year or two, I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo— Ma foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu, Dat is for Englishman, — m'entendez-vous? EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 305 But den lie had wit him one fum6 son-gun. Rogue I no like — dey call liim Vellington." Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret, So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait. J ohn Bull was in his very worst of moods. Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods ; His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw. And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. His wars were ended, and tbe victory won, But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John ; And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way, " Never to grumble till he came to pay ; And then he always thinks, his temper's such. The work too little, and the pay too much." Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty, That when his mortal foe was on the floor. And past the power to harm his quiet more. Poor J ohn had well-nigh wept for Bonaparte ! Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd, — *' And who are you," John answer'd, "and be slamm'd ?" " A stranger, come to see the happiest man,— So, signior, all avouch,— in Frangistan."— " Happy ? my tenants breaking on my hand ; Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land ; Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths The sole consumers of my good broad-cloths — Happy 1— why, cursed war and racking tax 20 306 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs." — In that case, signior, I may take my leave ; I came to ask a favour — but I grieve — " " Favour 1" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard, " It's my belief you come to break the yard ! — But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner,— Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner." With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head ; But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, " Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline ; A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well." PART III. — SCOTLAND AND IRELAND. Next door to John there dwelt his sister Pee;, Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg When the blithe bagpipe blew — but soberer now. She doucdy span her flax and milk'd her cow. And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern. Yet once a-month her house was partly swept, And once a-week a plenteous board she kept. And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation. She now was grown amenable to laws, — A quiet soul as any in the nation ; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her boys. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 307 John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife. She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life. Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour. Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labour. Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon. And was sad close in making of a bargain. The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg. And with decorum curtsy'd sister Peg ; (She loved a book, and knew a thing or two. And guess'd at once with whom she had to do.) She bade him ** Sit into the fire," and took Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook; Ask'd him " about the news from Eastern parts ; And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts ! If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper. And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper ; — Were there nae speerings of our Mungo Park — Ye'U be the gentleman that wants the sark? If ye wad buy a wab o' auld wife's spinnin', I'll warrant ye it's a weel- wearing linen." Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle In search of goods her customer to nail. Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle. And hoUo'd, — " Ma'am that is not -what I ail. Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen]" — Happy?" said Peg; " what for d'ye want to ken] 308 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Besides, just think upon this by-gane year ; Grrain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh." — " What say you to the present?" — " Meal's sae dear. To mak' their hrose my bairns have scarce aneugh."— " The devil take the shirt!" said Solimaun; " I think my quest will end as it began. Farewell, ma'am ; nay, no ceremony I beg — " " Te'll no be for the linen, theni" said Peg. Now for the land of verdant Erin The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells, The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. For a long space had John, with words of thunder. Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under. Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly. Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. Hard was his lot and lodging, youll allow, — A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow ; His landlord, and of middle-men two brace, Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place ; His garment was a top-coat, and an old one ; His meal was a potato, and a cold one ; But still for fun or frolic, and all that. In the round world was not the match of Pat. The Sultaun saw him on a holiday. Which is with Paddy still a jolly day : When maps is ended, and his load of sina EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 309 Coiifess'd, and Mother Church hath from her Lins Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit. Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free. And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. ** By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, " That ragged fellow is our very man ! Kush in and seize him— do not do him hurt. But, will he nill he, let me have his shirL" Shilella their plan was well-nigh after baulking (Much less provocation will set it a- walking). But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack ; They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him — Alack ! Up-bubboo ! Paddy had not— a shirt to his back ! ! ! And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame. Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. Poetical Works, IDorbstoortli. WE ARE SEVEN. r — -A Simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death] 310 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. I met a little cottage girl ; She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air. And she was wildly clad : Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — Her beauty made me glad. " Sisters and brothers, little maid. How many may you be ?" " How many 1 Seven in all," she said. And wondering looked at me. ** And where are they;? I pray you teD.** She answered, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell. And two are gone to sea. Two'of us in the churchyard lie, — My sister and my brother; And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.'* " You say that two at Conway dwell. And two are gone to sea. Yet ye are seven ! — I pray yon tell. Sweet maid, how this may be." EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 311 Then did tlie little maid reply, " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in tlie churcliyard lie. Beneath the churchyard tree." ** You run about, my little maid. Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." " Their graves are green, they may be seen,*^ The little maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit. My kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit. And sing a song to them. And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer. And eat my supper there. The first that died was sister Jane. In bed she moaning lay. Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away. 312 ETENINGS "WITH THE POETS. So in the churchyard she was laid ; And, when the grass was dry. Together round her grave we played. My brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide. My brother John was forced to go. And he lies by her side." " How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in heaven 1 " Quick was the little maid's reply " 0 master ! we are seven. " " But they are dead ! those two are dead ! Their spirits are in heaven ! " 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will. And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINA- TION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH. Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul, that art the eternity of thought! And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion ! not in vain, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 313 By day or star light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul ; " Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature ; purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought. And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear,— until we recognise A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours rolling down the valleys made ; A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights. When, by the margin of the trembling lake. Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 'Twas mine among the fields both day and night. And by the waters all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile, The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons : happy time It was indeed for all of us ; for me It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud The village clock tolled six— I wheeled about, , Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home. All shod with steel 314 E7ENINGS WITH THE POETS. We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,— the resounding horn. The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle: with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed; while the stars. Eastward, were sparkUng clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. To cut across the reflex of a star ; Image that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes. When we had given our bodies to the wind. And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning stiU The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels. Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me— even as if the Earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round ! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 315 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. Theee was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. The earth, and every common sight. To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, — The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; Turn wheresoe'er I may. By night or day. The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The Kainbow comes and goes. And lovely is the Eose ; 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 316 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief : A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong : The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. And all the earth is gay ; Land and sea Q-ive 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 call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss, 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, BTElTINaS WITH THE POETS. 317 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — But there's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon ; Both of them speak of something that is gone : The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : "Whither is fled the visionary gleam 1 Where is it now, the glory and the dream 1 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : The soul that rises with us, our life's star. Hath had elsewhere its setting. And Cometh from afar : Not in entire forgetfulness. And not in utter nakedness. But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home. Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy ; The Youth, who daily further from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest. And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the Man perceives it die away. 318 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 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 yeats' darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. Some fragment from his dream of human life. Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his " humorous stage EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 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 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 ! 0 joy ! that in our embars Is something that doth live ; 320 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest,— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, "With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; — But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things ; Fallings from 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 affections. Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may. Are yet the fountain light of all our day. Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. To perish never ; Which neitber listlessness, nor mad endeavour. Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 321 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 shoi-e, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song ! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death, la years that bring the philosophic mind. 21 322 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway., I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 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. THE POWER OF SOUND. Break forth into thanksgiving, Ye banded instruments of wind and chorda 1 Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead. Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; Thou to be heard, lone eagle ! freed From snowy peak and cloud, attune EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 323 Thy hungry barkings to the hymn Of joy that from her utmost walls The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim, Transmits to Heaven ! As deep to deep Shouting through one valley calls. All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured Into the ear of God, their Lord ! A Voice to Light gave being ; To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler; A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, And sweep away life's visionary stir ; The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride. Arm at its blast for deadly wars) To archangelic lips applied. The grave shall open, quench the stars. 0 Silence ! are Man's noisy years No more than moments of thy life ? Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, With her smooth tones and discords just, Tempered into rapturous strife. Thy destined bond-slave 1 No ! though earth be dust, And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay Is in the Wobd, that shall not pass away. 3?4 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. I urns. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNINa ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. Web, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou'st met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my pow'r. Thou bonnie gem, Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckled breast. When upward-springing, blithe, to gre^t The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 325 Tlie flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High slielt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; But thou, beneath the random bield 0' clod or stan?, Adorns the histie stibble-field. Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow 'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust ; Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid| Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore. Till billows rage, and gales blow Laid, And whelm him o'er ! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. Who long with wants and woes has striven. 326 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. By human pride or cunning driven To mis'ry's brink, Till, wrench 'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Ue, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom. Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom ! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare. One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spy'd a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care ; His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. "■ Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?" Began the rev'rend sage ; " Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. Or youthful pleasure's rage ] EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS. Or, haply, press'd witli cares and woes. Too soon thou hast hegan To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of Man. The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haup-hty lordling's pride ; I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return; And ev'ry time has added proofs That Man was made to mourn. 0 man ! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time ! Mis-spending all thy precious hours. Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force give Nature's law. That Man was made to mourn. Look not alone on youthful prime. Or manhood's active might ; — Man then is useful to his kind. Supported is his right : But see him on the edge of life. With cares and sorrows worn ; 328 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. Then age and want, oh ! ill-match'd pair ! Show Man was made to mourn. A few seem favourites of Fate, In Pleasure's lap carest ; Yet, think not all the ricli and great Are likewise truly blest. But, oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land Are wretched and forlorn : Through weary life this lesson learn. That Man was made to mourn. Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves. Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn ! See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile. Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow- worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 329 If I'm design 'd yon lordling's slave- By Nature's law design 'd. Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn 1 Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn] Yet let not this too much, my son. Disturb thy youthful breast : This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born. Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! 0 Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest I ' The great, the wealthy, tear thy blow,- From pomp and pleasure torn ; But, oh ! a blest relief to those That weary- laden mourn !" 330 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. FROM " THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT." The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big Ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales a portion with judicious care ; And, " Let us worship (iod !" he says with solemn air. They clmnt their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, —by far the noblest aim ; Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise ; Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame. The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise. - The priest-like father reads the sacred page. How Abram was the friend of Grod on high ; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. 331 Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; Or, r^pt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in heav'n the second name. Had not on earth whereon to lay His head : How His first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How he, who lone in Patmos banished. Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing,"* That thus they all shall meet in future days : There, ever basic in uncreated rays, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear ; Together hymning their Creator's praise. In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Eeligion's pride. In all the pomp of method and of art. * Pope's Windsor Forest." — R. B. 332 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompons strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way : The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; The parent-p.?,ir their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request. That He who stills the raven's clara'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like th§se old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of Grod : " And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 0 Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent I EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. 333 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, oh ! may Heav'n their simple Kves prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. 0 Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream 'd through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, — the second glorious part, (The patriot's Grod peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 0 never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thotj ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn. Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. 0 Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful resti Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 334 EYENINGS WITH THE POETS. That sacred hour can 1 forget ] Can I forget the hallow'd grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not eflFace Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ! Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. The birds sang love on ev'ry spray. Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care : Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy blissful place of rest 1 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid 1 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast 1 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 335 I LOVE MY JEAN. Of a' the airts the "wind can blaw, I dearly like the west. For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : There wild woods grow, and rivers row. And monie a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair ; I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : , There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green. There's not a bonnie bird that sings. But minds me o' my Jean. 336 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. THE HAPPIEST TIME. When are we happiest ? — when the. light of morn Wakes the young roses from their crimson rest ; When cheerful sounds, upon the fresh winds borne, Tell man resumes his work with blither zest, While the bright waters leap from rock to glen — • Are we the happiest then ? Alas, those roses ! — they will fade away, And thunder-tempests will deform the sky : And summer heats bid the spring buds decay, And the clear sparkling fountain may be dry ; And nothing beauteous may adorn the scene. To tell what It has been I When are we happiest ? — in the crowded hall, When Fortune smiles, and flatterers bend the knee 1 How soon — how very soon, such pleasures pall ! How fast must Falsehood's rainbow colouring flee ; Its poison flowerets leave the sting of care ; We are not happy there I Are we the happiest, when the evening hearth Is circled with its crown of living flowei's 1 When goeth round the laugh of harmless mirth, And when Aff"ection from her bright urn showei-s Her richest balm on the dilating heai-t ? Bliss I is it there thou art ? EVENINGS "WITH THE POETS, 337 Oh, no 1 not there ; it would be happiness Almost like heav'n's, if it might always be. Those brows without one shading of distress. And wanting nothing but eternity ; But they are things of earth, and pass away, — They must, they must decay I Those voices must grow tremulous with years, Those smiling brows must wear a tinge of gloom, Those sparkling eyes be quenched in bitter tears, And, at the last, close darkly in the tomb. If happiness depend on them alone, How quickly is it gone I When are we happiest, then ? — oh ! when resigned To whatsoe'er our cup of life may bring ; When we can know ourselves but weak and blind. Creatures of earth ! and trust alone in Him Who giveth, in his mercy, joy or pain. Oh 1 we are happiest then ! Mart A. Browne. FEIENDS. Friend after friend departs ; "Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts. That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our only rest, Living or dying none were blest. 22 I . 338 EVENINaS WITH THE POETS. Beyond the flight of time, Beyond this vale of death, There surely is some blessed clisne Where life is not a breath, Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward and expire. There is a world above. Where parting is unknown ; A whole eternity of love. Formed for the good alone ; And Faith beholds the dying here Translated to that glorious sphere. Thus star by star declines. Till all are passed away. As morning high and higher shines To pure and perfect day ; Nor sink those stars in empty night, They hide themselves in heav'ns own light. Montgomery. WOMAN. Woman ! blest partner of our joys and woes ! Even in the darkest hour of earthly ill. Untarnished yet, thy fond aff'ection glows, Throbs with each pulse, and beats with every thrill I Bright o'er the wasted scene, thou hoverest still, EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 339 Angel of comfort to the failing soul ; Undaunted by the tempest, wild and chill, That pours its restless and disastrous roll, O'er all that blooms below, with sad and hollow howl. When sorrow rends the heart, when feverish pain Wrings the hot drops of anguish from the brow, To soothe the soul, to cool the burning brain, 0, who so welcome and so prompt as thou ! The battle's hurried scene and angry glow, — The death-encircled pillow of distress,— The lonely moments of secluded wo, — Alike thy care and constancy confess, Alike thy pitying hand, and fearless friendship bless ! Eastburn. Mr MOTHER. They tell us of an Indian tree. Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky, May tempt its boughs to wander free. And shoot, and blossom, wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear e.nrtli, From which the hfe that fills and warms ^ Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends. And fed with fame, (if fame it be,) This heart, my own dear Mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thep MooiiE, 340 EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. LOVE. I CANNOT think Love thrives by artifice, i)r can disguise its mood, and show its face. I would not hide one portion of my heart Where I did give it and did feel 'twas right. Nor feign a wish to mask a wish that was, Howe'er to keep it. For no cause except Myself would I be loved. What were't to me, My lover valued me the more, the more He saw me comely in another's eyes. When his alone the vision I would show Becoming to ? I have sought the reason oft They paint Love as a child, and still have thought It was because true love, like infancy, Frank, trusting, unobservant of its mood, Doth show its wish at once, and means no more ! Shebidan Knowies. LOVE SONG. The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose, And the rose loved one ; For who recks the Wind where it blows ? Or loves not the Sun ? None knew whence the humble Wind stole, Poor sport of the skies — EyEKINGS WITH THE POETS. 341 None dreamt that the Wind had a soul In its mournful sighs. Oh I happy Beam — how canst thou prove That bright love of thine ? In thy light is the proof of thy love, Thou hast but — to shine. How its love can the Wind reveal ? Unwelcome its sigh, Mute — ^mute to its Rose let it steal. Its proof is — to die. Bdlwer Christmas morning was only struggling through the grey mists of its tardy day-break, when the whole inmates of Derley Manor were afoot, and busily engaged in preparations for the anticipated events of that auspicious day. Bridesmaids were hurrying about, perplexed between the important cares of their own toilet and the responsible duty of superintending that of the bride. The bridegroom was still more perplexed for lack of any very definite duties to occupy him, till the arrival of the hour when the whole party 342 EVENIKGS WITH THE POETS. were to proceed to AmptliiU Church, and Colonel Howard was to give away his loved Carolme to the care and love of one dearer to her than himself. .Down stairs the bustle and excitement was even greater than above. Christmas festivities at no time passed away in the old manor house without an abundant display of hospitable cheer. The miseltoe had annually hung its mirthful signal from the roof of the great haU, and its walls had never lacked the seasonable decorations of ivy leaves and the sparklmg holly bows, since the oldest of its inmates had romped on its old iiurser>- floor, many a long winter and summer ago. But nov all old festivities were to be surpassed on this mirth- ful Christmas that was to celebrate the union of the .wo cousms, under their kind grandfather's roof. The long expected hour came at length. The mirthful and the graver members of the happy cu'cle of Derley Manor wended their way to Ampthi]! Church, and the solemn vows were spoken there which can never be recalled. Not a few tearful eyes might have been seen among that company had there been an uidifferent one among them to take note of it; but the tears were not such as sorrow calls forth and they were soon forgotten, when at the close of the religious services of the day, the whole party sat down EVENINGS WITH THE POETS. 343 to the wedding feast within the hospitable old hall. Many a lively sally and merry jest mingled in the innocent pleasures of that happy Christmas; and though years have gone by since then, and changes have passed on both old and young, not a few still cherish pleasing recollections of that mirthful Christmas that crowned the loves of Alfred Dudley and Caroline Howard, nor do they forget in their annual congratulations to the happy couple, how much of this was due to the auspicious reigns of Queen Caroline and her successor, the first King and Queen who presided over these delightful Et'Enings AT Derley Manor.