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Beside a brook in

mossy forest-dell
By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in nature's immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song,
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
Be lov'd, like nature ! But 'twill not be so ;
And youths and maidens most poetical
Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt
A'different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices always full of love
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful, that an April, night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music! And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge
Which the great lord inhabits not : and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken

up,

and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many Nightingales ; and far and near
In wood and thicket over the wide grove
They answer and provoke each other's songs---
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than all-
Stirring the air with such an harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might alınost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.

A most gentle maid
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,
(Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate
To something more than nature in the grove)
Glides thro' the pathways, she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid ! and oft, a moment's space,
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What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence : till the Moon
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept
An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd
Many a nightingale perch giddily
On blos’my twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune huis wanton song,
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
Farewell, o Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell !
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes. That strain again!
Full fain it would delay me!-My dear Babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his car,
This little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well
The evening star: and once when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream)
I hurried with him to our orchard plot,
And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well
It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,

Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends ! farewell.'
The Female Vagrant is an agonizing tale of individual wretchel-
0:ss; highly coloured, though, alas! but too probable. Yet, as
it seems to stamp a general stigma on all military transactions,
which were never more important in free countries than at the
present period, it will perhaps be asked whether the hardships
described never happen during revolution, or in a nation sub-
dued? The sufferings of individuais during war are dreadful ;
buc is it not better to try to prevent them from becoming gene-
ral, or to render them transieạt by heroic and patriotic efforts,
than to fly to them for ever?

Distress from poverty and want is adniirably described, in the true story of Goody Blake, and Harry Gill : but are we to imagine that Harry was bewitched by Goody Blake? The

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hardest heart must be softened into pity for the poor oll woman ;-and yet, if all the poor are to help themselves, and supply their wants from the possessions of their neighbours, what inaginary wants and real anarchy would it not create ? Goody Blake should have been relieved out of the two millions annually allowed by the state to the poor of this country, not by the plunder of an individual.

Lines on the first mild day of March abound with beautiful sentiments from a polished mind.

Simon Lee, the ild Huntsman, is the portrait, admirably painted, of every huntsman who, by toil, age, and infirmities, is rendered unable to guide and govern his canine family.

Anecdote for Fathers. Of this the dialogue is ingenious and natural: but the object of the child's choice, and the inferences, are not quite obvious.

We are seven :-innocent and pretty infantine prattle.

On an early Spring. The first stanza of this little poem seems unworthy of the rest, which contain reflections truly pious and philosophical.

The Thorn. All our author's pictures, in colouring, are dark as those of Rembrandt or Spanioletto.

The last of the Fluck is more gloomy than the rest. not told how the wretched bero of this piece became so poor. He had, indeed, ten children : but so have many cottagers ; and ere the tenth child is burn, the eldest begin to work, and help, at least, to maintain themselves. No oppression is pointed out; nor are any means suggested for his relief. If the author be a wealthy man, he ought not to have suffered this poor peasant to part with the last of the frack. What but an Agrarian law can prevent poverty írom visiting the door of the indolent, injudicious, extravagant, and, perhaps, vicious ? and is it certain that rigid equality of property as well as of laws could remedy this evil?

The Dungcon. Here candour and tenderness for criminals seem pushed to excess. Have not jails been built on the humane Mr. How.rd's plan, which have almost: ruined some counties, and which look more like palaces than habitations for the perpetrators of crimes? Yet, have fewer crimes been committed in consequence of the erection of those magnificent structures, at an expence which would have maintained many in innocence and comfort out of a jail, if they have been driven to thefc by want?

The mad Mother ; admirable painting! in Michael Angelo's bold and masterly mariner.

The Idiot Boy leads the reader on from anxiety to distress, and from distress to terror, by incidents and alarms which,

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though of the most mean and ignoble kind, interest, frighten, and terrify, almost to torture, during the perusal of more than a hundred stanzas.

Lines written near Richmond-literally most musical, most melancholy !"

Expostulation and Reply. The author tells us that these lines, and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a fritnd who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of moral philosophy. These two pieces will afford our readers an opportunity of judging of the author's poetical talents, in a more modern and less gloomy style than his Ballads :

" Why William, on that old grey stone,

Thus for the length of half a day,
Why William, sit you thus alonc,

And dream your time away?
" Where are your books ? that light bequeath'd

To beings else forelorn and blind!
Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath'd

From dead men to their kind.
“ You look round on your

mother earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you ;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you !"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,

And thus I made reply.
“ The eye it cannot chuse but see,

We cannot bid the ear be still ;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,

Against, or with our will.
« Nor less I deem that there are powers,

Which of themselves our minds impress,
That we can feed this mind of ours,

In a wise passiveness.
« Think you, mid all this mighty sum

Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,

But we must still be seeking ?
" -Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,

Conversing as I may,
I sit upon tliis old grey stone,
And dream time

AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
• Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?'
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double.

The

my

away."

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6 The sun above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow,
Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.
• Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife,

Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music ; on my

life
There's more of wisdom in it.
. And bark ! how blithe the throstle sings!

no ;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your

teacher.
• She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,

Truth breathed by chearfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man ;
Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.
• Sweet is the lore which nature brings;

Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things ;

-We murder to dissect.
• Enough of science and of art;
Close

up

these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.' The Old Man travelling, a Sketch, finely drawn : but the termination seems pointed against the war; from which, however, we are now no more able to separate ourselves, than Hercules was to free himself from the shirt of Nessus. The old traveller's son might have died by disease.

Each ballad is a tale of woe. The style and versification are those of our antient ditties: but much polished, and more constantly excellent. In old songs, we have only a fine line or stanza now and then ; here we meet with few that are feeble:—but it is poesie larmoiante. The author is more plaintive than Gray himself,

The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman: another tale of woe! of the most afflicting and harrowing kind. The want of humanity here falls not on wicked Europeans, but on the innocent Indian savages, who enjoy unlimited freedom and liberty, unbridled by kings, magistrates, or laws.

The Convict. What a description ! and what misplaced commiseration, on one condemned by the laws of his country,

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