How beautiful, if sorrow had not made I cannot say, "O wherefore sleepest thou?" As when, upon a tranced summer night, The antique grace and solemnity of passages like this must be felt by every lover of poetry. The chief defects of Keats are his want of distinctness and precision, and the carelessness of his style. There would seem to have been even affectation in his disregard of order and regularity; and he heaps up images and conceits in such profusion, that they often form grotesque and absurd combinations, which fatigue the reader. Deep feeling and passion are rarely given to young poets redolent of fancy, and warm from the perusal of the ancient authors. The difficulty with which Keats had mastered the classic mythology gave it an undue importance in his mind: a more perfect knowledge would have harmonised its materials, and shewn him the beauty of chasteness and simplicity of style; but Mr Leigh Hunt is right in his opinion that the poems of Keats, with all their defects, will be the sure companions in field and grove' of those who love to escape out of the strife of commonplaces into the haven of solitude and imagination.' One line in Endymion has become familiar as a 'household word' wherever the English language is spoken A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. The Lady Madeline at her Devotions. Out went the taper as she hurried in; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die heart-stifled in her dell. A casement high and triple-arched there was Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel newly drest, Save wings, for heaven; Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. The dreary melody of bedded reeds In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx-do thou now, By all the trembling mazes that she ran, O thou for whose soul-soothing quiet turtles Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices filit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; O hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, The many that are come to pay their vows, Be still the unimaginable lodge Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknown-but no more: we humbly screen Ode to a Nightingale. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees, Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies; Sonnets. On First Looking into Chapman's Homer. That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmiseSilent, upon a peak in Darien. On England. Happy is England! I could be content For skies Italian, and an inward groan Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about their summer waters. DR REGINALD HEBER. DR REGINALD HEBER, bishop of Calcutta, was born April 21, 1783, at Malpas in Cheshire, where his father had a living. In his seventeenth year he was admitted of Brazen-nose College, Oxford, and soon distinguished himself by his classical attainments. In 1802 he obtained the university prize for Latin hexameters, his subject being the Carmen Seculare. Applying himself to English verse, Heber, in 1803, composed his poem of Palestine, which has been considered the best prize-poem the university has ever produced. Parts of it were set to music; and it had an extensive sale. Previous to its recitation in the theatre of the university, the young author read it to Sir Walter Scott, then on a visit to Oxford; and Scott observed, that in the verses on Solomon's Temple, one striking circumstance had escaped himnamely, that no tools were used in its construction. Reginald retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with the beautiful lines: No hammer fell, no ponderous axes rung; Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung. His picture of Palestine, in its now fallen and desolate state, is pathetic and beautiful : Palestine. Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, He has also given a striking sketch of the Druses, the hardy mountain race descended from the Crusaders : The Druses. Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom, In 1805 Heber took his degree of B.A., and the same year gained the prize for the English essay. He was elected to a fellowship at All Souls' College, and soon after went abroad, travelling over Germany, Russia, and the Crimea. On his return he took his degree of A.M. at Oxford. He appeared again as a poet in 1809, his subject being Europe, or Lines on the Present War. The struggle in Spain formed the predominating theme of Heber's poem. He was now presented to the living of Hodnet; and at the same time he married Amelia, daughter of Dr Shipley, dean of St Asaph. The duties of a parish pastor were discharged by Heber with unostentatious fidelity and application. He also applied his vigorous intellect to the study of divinity, and in 1815 preached the Bampton Lecture, the subject selected by him for a course of sermons being the Personality and Office of the Christian Comforter. He was an occasional contributor to the Quarterly Review; and in 1822 he wrote a copious life of Jeremy Taylor, and a review of his writings, for a complete edition of Taylor's works. Contrary to the advice of prudent friends, he accepted, in 1823, the difficult task of bishop of Calcutta, and no man could have entered on his mission with a more Christian or apostolic spirit. His whole energies appear to have been devoted to the propagation of Christianity in the East. In 1826 the bishop made a journey to Travancore, accompanied by the Rev. Mr Doran, of the Church Missionary Society. On the 1st of April he arrived at Trichinopoly, and had twice service on the day following. He went the next day, Monday, at six o'clock in the morning, to see the native Christians in the fort, and attend divine service. He then returned to the house of a friend, and went into the bath preparatory to his dressing for breakfast. His servant, conceiving he remained too long, entered the room, and found the bishop dead at the bottom of the bath. Medical assistance was applied, but every effort proved ineffectual; death had been caused by apoplexy. The loss of so valuable a public man, equally beloved and venerated, was mourned by all classes, and every honour was paid to his memory. At the time of his death he was only in his forty-third year-a period too short to have developed those talents and virtues which, as one of his admirers in India remarked, rendered his course in life, from the moment that he was crowned with academical honours till the day of his death, one track of light, the admiration of Britain and of India. The widow of Dr Heber published a Memoir of his Life, with selections from his letters; and also a Narrative of his Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay. Missionary Hymn. From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft on Ceylon's isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile; In vain, with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The heathen, in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we whose souls are lighted Salvation! oh, salvation! From Bishop Heber's Journal. If thou, my love, wert by my side, I miss thee at the dawning gray, And woo the cooler wind. I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn or eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay CHARLES WOLFE. The REV. CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823), a native of Dublin, may be said to have earned a literary immortality by one short poem. Reading in the Edinburgh Annual Register a description of the death and interment of Sir John Moore on the battle-field of Corunna, this amiable young poet turned it into verse with such taste, pathos, and even sublimity, that his poem has obtained an imperishable place in our literature. The subject was attractive-the death of a brave and popular general on the field of battle, and his burial by his companions-in-arms-and the poet himself dying when young, beloved and lamented by his friends, gave additional interest to the production. The ode was published anonymously in an Irish newspaper in 1817, and was ascribed to various authors; Shelley considering it not unlike a first draught by Campbell. In 1841 it was claimed by a Scottish student and teacher, who ungenerously and dishonestly sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner. The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right 141 beyond any further question or controversy; and the new claimant was forced to confess his imposture, at the same time expressing his contrition for his misconduct. Wolfe was a curate in the established church, and died of consumption. His literary remains have been published, with a memoir of his life by Archdeacon Russell. The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; The passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1808) on which Wolfe founded his ode was written by Southey, and is as follows: Sir John Moore had often said that if he was killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there by a body of the 9th regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened; for about eight in the morning some firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his family bore him to the grave; the funeral-service was read by the chaplain; and the corpse was covered with earth.' In 1817 Wolfe took orders, and was first curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. His incessant attention to his duties, in a wild and scattered parish, not only quenched his poetical enthusiasm, but hurried him to an untimely grave. THE DIBDINS-JOHN COLLINS. CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814) was celebrated as a writer of naval songs, 'the solace of sailors in long voyages, in storms, and in battles,' and he was also an actor and dramatist. His sea-songs are said to exceed a thousand in number! His and song-writers, but inferior to the elder Dibdin. sons, Charles and Thomas, were also dramatists THOMAS DIBDIN (1771-1841) published his Reminiscences, containing curious details of theatrical affairs. We subjoin two of the sea-songs of the elder Charles Dibdin : Tom Bowling. Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he 'll hear the tempest howling, Tom never from his word departed, |