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his leisure hours to the study of languages, he was and bearing the following inscription--so expresable, in the course of ten months, to read'Horace sive of the tenderness and regret universally felt with tolerable facility, and had made some pro- towards the poet-by Professor Smyth : gress in Greek. At the same time he acquired a knowledge of Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese,

Warm with fond hope and learning's sacred flame, and even applied himself to the acquisition of some

To Granta's bowers the youthful poet came ; of the sciences. His habits of study and appli

Unconquered powers the immortal mind displayed, cation were unremitting. A London magazine,

But worn with anxious thought, the frame decayed. called the Monthly Preceptor, having proposed

Pale o'er his lamp, and in his cell retired, prize-themes for the youth of both sexes, Henry

The martyr student faded and expired.

Oh! genius, taste, and piety sincere, became a candidate, and while only in his fifteenth

Too early lost midst studies too severe ! year, obtained a silver medal for a translation Foremost to mourn was generous Southey seen, from Horace ; and the following year a pair of He told the tale, and shewed what White had been ; twelve-inch globes for an imaginary tour from Lon Nor told in vain. Far o'er the Atlantic wave don to Edinburgh. He next became a corres A wanderer came, and sought the poet's grave: pondent in the Monthly Mirror, and was intro On yon low stone he saw his lonely name, duced to the acquaintance of Mr Capel Lofft and

And raised this fond memorial to his fame. of Mr Hill, the proprietor of the above periodical. Their encouragement induced him to prepare a

Byron has also consecrated some beautiful lines to volume of poems for the press, which appeared in

the memory of White. The poetry of Henry was 1803. The longest piece in the collection is a all written before his twentieth year, and hence descriptive poem in the style of Goldsmith, en should not be severely judged. If compared, titled "Clifton Grove, which shews a remarkable however, with the strains of Cowley or Chatterton proficiency in smooth and elegant versification at an earlier age, it will be seen to be inferior in and language. In his preface to the volume, this, that no indications are given of great future Henry had stated that the poems were the produc

genius. Whether force and originality would tion of a youth of seventeen, published for the have come with manhood and learning, is a point purpose of facilitating his future studies, and which, notwithstanding the example of Byronenabling him to pursue those inclinations which a very different mind-may fairly be doubted. It might one day place him in an honourable station is enough, however, for Henry Kirke White to in the scale of society.' Such a declaration should have afforded one of the finest examples on record have disarmed the severity of criticism ; but the of youthful talent and perseverance devoted to volume was contemptuously noticed in the Monthly

the purest and noblest objects. Review, and Henry felt the most exquisite pain from the unjust and ungenerous critique. Fortu

To an Early Primrose. nately, the volume fell into the hands of Southey, who wrote to the young poet to encourage him,

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! and other friends sprung up to succour his

genius,

Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms, and procure for him what was the darling object

And cradled in the winds. of his ambition, admission to the university of Cambridge. His opinions for some time inclined Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's to deism, without any taint of immorality ; but a

way, fellow-student put into his hands Scott's Force of And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Truth, and he soon became a decided convert to

Thee on this bank he threw the spirit and doctrines of Christianity. He re

To mark his victory. solved upon devoting his life to the promulgation In this low vale, the promise of the year, of them, and the Rev. Mr Simeon, Cambridge, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, procured for him a sizarship at St John's College. Unnoticed and alone, This benevolent clergyman further promised, with Thy tender elegance. the aid of a friend, to supply him with £30 annually, and his own family were to furnish the re

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms mainder necessary for him to go through college.

Of chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,
Poetry was now abandoned for severer studies.
He competed for one of the university scholar-

Obscure and unobserved ; ships, and at the end of the term was pronounced While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, the first man of his year. Mr Catton-his tutor Chastens her spotless purity of breast, —by procuring for him exhibitions to the amount And hardens her to bear of £66 per annum, enabled him to give up the Serene the ills of life. pecuniary assistance which he had received from Mr Simeon and other friends. This distinction

Sonnet. was purchased at the sacrifice of health and life. "Were I,' he said, “to paint Fame crowning an

What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat ? undergraduate after the senate-house examination,

Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands, I would represent him as concealing a death's

And thou dost bear within thine awful hands head under the mask of beauty.' He died on the

The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet;

Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, 19th of October 1806. Southey wrote a sketch

Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead of his life, and edited his Remains, which proved

noon, to be highly popular. A tablet to Henry's Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, memory, with a medallion by Chantrey, was placed Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. in All Saints' Church, Cambridge, by a young In the drear silence of the polar span American gentleman, Mr Francis Boot of Boston, Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ?

The lyre which I in early days have strung; Vain thought I the confines of his throne to trace

And now my spirits faint, and I have hung Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,

On the dark cypress ; and the strings which rung The Star of Bethlehem.

With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,

Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard When marshalled on the nightly plain,

no more.
The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,

And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Shall I no more reanimate the lay?
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

Oh ! Thou who visitest the sons of men,
From every host, from every gem;

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, But one alone the Saviour speaks,

One little space prolong my mournful day; It is the Star of Bethlehem.

One little lapse suspend thy last decree !

I am a youthful traveller in the way, Once on the raging seas I rode,

And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, The storm was loud-the night was dark; Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am The ocean yawned-and rudely blowed

free.
The wind that tossed my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze,

JAMES GRAHAME.
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose,

The Rev. JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glas-
It was the Star of Bethlehem.

gow in the year 1765. He studied the law, and

practised at the Scottish bar for several years, but It was my guide, my light, my all,

afterwards took orders in the Church of England, It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers' thrall,

and was successively curate of Shipton, in GlouIt led me to the port of peace.

cestershire, and of Sedgefield, in the county of Now safely moored-my perils o'er,

Durham. Ill-health compelled him to abandon I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

his curacy when his virtues and talents had atFor ever and for evermore,

tracted notice and rendered him a popular and The Star-the Star of Bethlehem.

useful preacher; and on revisiting Scotland, he died on the 14th of September 1811. The works

of Grahame consist of Mary, Queen of Scotland, a Britain a Thousand Years Hence,

dramatic poem published in 1801 ; The Sabbath Where now is Britain ?- Where her laurelsed names, The Birds of Scotland (1806), and British Georgics

(1804), Sabbath Walks (1805), Biblical Pictures, Her palaces and halls? Dashed in the dust. Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, (1809), all'in blank verse." The Sabbath is the And with one big recoil hath thrown her back best of his productions, and the Georgics the least To primitive barbarity.--Again,

interesting; for though the latter contains some Through her depopulated vales, the scream

fine descriptions, the poet is too minute and too Of bloody superstition hollow rings,

practical in his rural lessons. The amiable perAnd the scared native to the tempest howls

sonal feelings of the author constantly appear." He The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts,

thus warmly and tenderly apostrophises his native Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cry Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash

country : Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. Even as the savage sits upon the stone

Apostrophe to Scotland. That marks where stood her capitols, and hears

How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed, The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks

Upon my ear, when, after roaming long From the dismaying solitude. Her bards

In southern plains, I've reached thy lovely bank! Sing in a language that hath perished;

How bright, renowned Sark, thy little stream, And their wild harps, suspended o'er their graves, Like ray of columned light chasing a shower, Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain.

Would cross my homeward path; how sweet the

sound, Meanwhile the arts, in second infancy,

When I, to hear the Doric tongue's reply,
Rise in some distant clime, and then perchance
Some bold adventurer, filled with golden dreams,

Would ask thy well-known name !

And must I leave, Steering his bark through trackless solitudes,

Dear land, thy bonny braes, thy dales, Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow

Each haunted by its wizard stream, o'erhung Hath ever ploughed before-espies the cliffs

With all the varied charms of bush and tree? Of fallen Albion.-To the land unknown

And must I leave the friends of youthful years, He journeys joyful; and perhaps descries

And mould my heart anew, to take the stamp Some vestige of her ancient stateliness;

Of foreign friendships in a foreign land, Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind

And learn to love the music of strange tongues ! Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived

Yes, I may love the music of strange tongues, At science in that solitary nook,

And mould my heart anew to take the stamp Far from the civil world: and sagely sighs

Of foreign friendships in a foreign land : And moralises on the state of man.

But to my parched mouth's roof cleave this tongue,

My fancy fade into the yellow leaf,
The Christiad.

And this oft-pausing heart forget to throb,

If, Scotland, thee and thine I e'er forget. Concluding stanzas, written shortly before his death. Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme, An anecdote is related of the modest poet conWith self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung nected with the publication of The Sabbath, which

43

affords an interesting illustration of his character. Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, He had not prefixed his name to the work, nor

Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, acquainted his family with the secret of its com Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; position, and taking a copy of the volume home And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, with him one day, he left it on the table. His

His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. wife began reading it, while the sensitive author

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail

, the poor man's day. walked up and down the room ; and at length she

On other days, the man of toil is doomed broke out into praise of the poem, adding: 'Ah,

To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground James, if you could but produce a poem like this ! Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold The joyful acknowledgment of his being the author And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree; was then made, no doubt with the most exquisite But on this day, embosomed in his home, pleasure on both sides. Grahame in some respects He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; resembles Cowper. He has no humour or satire, With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy it is true, and he has many prosaic lines, but the Of giving thanks to God—not thanks of form, same powers of close and happy observation

A word and a grimace, but reverently, which the poet of Olney applied to English scenery,

With covered face and upward earnest eye. were directed by Grahame to that of Scotland,

Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day: and both were strictly devout and national poets.

The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe

The morning air pure from the city's smoke ; There is no author, excepting Burns or Scott,

While wandering

slowly up the river-side, whom an intelligent Scotsman, resident abroad,

He meditates on Him whose power he marks would read with more delight than Grahame. The

In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, ordinary features of the Scottish landscape he As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom portrays truly and distinctly, without exaggeration, Around the roots ; and while he thus surveys and often imparting to his descriptions a feeling With elevated joy each rural charm, of tenderness or solemnity. He was content with He hopes---yet fears presumption in the hopehumble things ; but he paints the charms of a To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends. retired cottage-life, the sacred calm of a Sabbath But now his steps a welcome sound recalls : morning, a walk in the fields, or even a bird's nest,

Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, with such unfeigned delight and accurate observa

Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe : tion, that the reader is constrained to see and feel

Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground;

The aged man, the bowed down, the blind with his author, to rejoice in the elements of poetry

Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes and meditation that are scattered around him,

With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well pleased; existing in the humblest objects, and in those

These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach humane and pious sentiments which impart to The house of God-these, spite of all their ills, external nature a moral interest and beauty. A glow of gladness feel ; with silent praise The religion of Grahame was not sectarian; he They enter in ; a placid stillness reigns, was equally impressed with the lofty ritual of the Until the man of God, worthy the name, English church, and the simple hill-worship of the Opens the book, and reverentially Covenanters. He is sometimes gloomy in his

The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. seriousness, from intense religious anxiety or

The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes, sympathy with his fellow-men suffering under

Then swells into a diapason full : oppression or misfortune, but he has less of this

The people

rising sing, with harp, with harp,

And voice of psalms;' harmoniously attuned harsh fruit,

The various voices blend ; the long-drawn aisles, Picked from the thorns and briers of reproof, At every close, the lingering strain prolong. ... than his brother-poet Cowper. His prevailing

Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,

The Sabbath service of the shepherd-boy! tone is that of implicit trust in the goodness of In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled God, and enjoyment in his creation.

To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,

Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
From The Sabbath.

Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son ;

Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold, How still the morning of the hallowed day!

And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed, Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed

With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath

With meikle care beneath the lowly roof, Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,

Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. Sounds the most faint attract the ear--the hum Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps, The distant bleating midway up the hill.

Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. Returning homeward from the house of prayer. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,

In peace they home resort. Oh, blissful days ! The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; When all men worship God as conscience wills. And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark

Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook A virtuous race to godliness devote.
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals

A Summer Sabbath Walk.
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

Delightful is this loneliness ; it calms With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods : My heart : pleasant the cool beneath these elms The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din

That throw across the stream a moveless shade. Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.

Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks; Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

How peaceful every sound !-the ringdove's plaint, 44

Moaned from the forest's gloomiest retreat,

Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me
While every other woodland lay is mute,

Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
Save when the wren fits from her down-coved nest, To see thee wandering darkling on thy way!
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear-

But let me quit this melancholy spot,
The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp-the buzz, And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,

As yet the bluebells linger on the sod
That soon as loosed booms with full twang away That copse the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal

A second blow of many flowers appears, Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.

Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume. Dimpling the water glides, with here and there But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay

That circles Autumn's brow. The ruddy haws The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout Now clothe the half-leafed thorn; the bramble bends Watches his time to spring; or from above,

Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs, With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow Bears off the prize. Sad emblem of man's lot ! The leaf-strewn banks : oft, statue-like, I gaze, He, giddy insect, from his native leaf

In vacancy of thought, upon that stream, (Where safe and happily he might have lurked), And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam, Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,

Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf,
Forgetful of his origin, and worse,

Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream,
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,

A Winter Sabbath Walk.
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. ...

How dazzling white the snowy scene ! deep, deep

The stillness of the winter Sabbath dayAgain I turn me to the hill, and trace

Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields, The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned ; Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves,

Each hollow pathway level with the plain :

Hid are the bushes, save that here and there And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down.

Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom. Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,

High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic

The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch. The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm,

Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried ;

No step approaches to the house of prayer. As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.

The flickering fall is o'er : the clouds disperse, How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel dry,

And shew the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge, Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. But hark a plaintive sound floating along!

Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam

On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling ; now it dies

To visit nature in her grand attire.
Away, now rises full ; it is the song
Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs

Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear ;

A noble recompense the danger brings.

How beautiful the plain stretched far below, It is the music of the heart, the voice

Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream Of venerable age, of guileless youth,

With azure windings, or the leafless wood ! In kindly circle seated on the ground

But what the beauty of the plain, compared Before their wicker-door. Behold the man !

To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks

Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book,

Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance

To steps the most adventurously bold?
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight;
While heedless at a side, the lisping boy

There silence dwells profound ; or if the cry

Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush, Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.

The mantled echoes no response return.

But let me now explore the deep-sunk dell.
An Autumn Sabbath Walk.

No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's,
When homeward bands their several ways disperse,

Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs I love to linger in the narrow field

Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green. Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,

Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts, And think of some who silent sleep below.

Nor linger there too long : the wintry day Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms

Soon closes ; and full oft a heavier fall, Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass :

Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen, The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,

While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves.

Mines for itself a snow-coved way! Oh, then, But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,

Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot, His guide for many a day, now come to mourn

And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side, The master and the friend-conjunction rare !

Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away : A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,

So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock Though bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash

From faithless pleasures, full into the storms Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless eyes.

Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast, He was a welcome guest through all his range

Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,

Bedimmed with showers; then to the pastures green It was not wide-no dog would bay at him : Children would run to meet him on his way,

He brings them where the quiet waters glide,
And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb

The stream of life, the Siloah of the soul.
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship :

To My Son.
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand

Twice has the sun commenced his annual round, Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.

Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground;

Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear, Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown By faltering out the name to fathers dear.

o'er, Oh! nature's language, with her looks combined, Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor; More precious far than periods thrice refined !

From thence a length of burning sand appears, Oh! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,

Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; I prize you more than beauty's magic smile ;

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,

Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye : I gaze with bliss unmingled with alarm.

There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies

And to the ragged infant threaten war; Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.

There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ; Almighty Power ! his harmless life defend,

There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; And, if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.

Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, And yet a wish will rise-would I might live,

The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; Till added years his memory firmness give!

O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, For, oh! it would a joy in death impart

And clasping

tares cling round the sickly blade ; To think I still survived within his heart;

With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, To think he 'll cast, midway the vale of years,

And a sad splendour vainly shines around. A retrospective look bedimmed with tears,

So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn, And tell, regretful, how I looked and spoke ;

Betrayed by man, then left for man to scorn ; What walks I loved, where grew my favourite oak;

Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, How gently I would lead him by the hand;

While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; How gently use the accent of command;

Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress,
What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild, Exposing most, when most it gilds distress.
And how the man descended to the child ;
How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,

The poet was put apprentice in his fourteenth To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn,

year to a surgeon, and afterwards practised in To teach religion, unallied to strife,

Aldborough ; but his prospects were so gloomy, And trace to him the way, the truth, the life. that he abandoned his profession, and proceeded But far and further still my view I bend,

to London as a literary adventurer. His whole And now I see a child thy steps attend;

stock of money amounted to only three pounds. To yonder churchyard-wall thou tak'st thy way, Having completed some poetical pieces, he offered While round thee, pleased, thou see'st the infant play ; them for publication, but they were rejected. In Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes, Pointing, thou tell’st him, “There thy grandsire lies.' cal epistle, The Candidate, addressed to the authors

the course of the year, however, he issued a poeti

of the Monthly Review. It was coldly received, The Thanksgiving off Cape Trafalgar. and his publisher failing at the same time, the Upon the high, yet gently rolling wave,

young poet was plunged into great perplexity and The floating tomb that heaves above the brave, want. He wrote to the premier, Lord North, to Soft sighs the gale that late tremendous roared, Lord-chancellor Thurlow, and to other nobleWhelming the wretched remnants of the sword. men, requesting assistance ; but in no case was And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls an answer returned. At length, when his affairs The victor bands to mount their wooden walls, were desperate, he applied to Edmund Burke, and And from the ramparts, where their comrades fell, in a modest yet manly statement disclosed to him The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell :

the situation in which he stood. Burke received Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread, him into his own house, and exercised towards And crowd the engines whence the lightnings sped : The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends;

him the most generous hospitality. While under Hushed is each voice, attention leaning bends;

his happy roof, the poet met Mr Fox, Sir Joshua Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise,

Reynolds, and others of the statesman's distinFloat o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.

guished friends. In the same year (1781) he pubHeaven fills each heart; yet home will oft intrude,

lished his poem The Library, which was favourAnd tears of love celestial joys exclude.

ably noticed by the critics. Lord Thurlow-who The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain, now, as in the case of Cowper, came with tardy Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain;

notice and ungraceful generosity-invited him to While parting spirits, mingling with the lay, breakfast, and at parting presented him with a On hallelujahs wing their heavenward way.

bank-note for a hundred pounds. Crabbe entered

into sacred orders, and was licensed as curate to GEORGE CRABBE.

the rector of his native parish of Aldborough. In

a short time, Burke procured for him the situation The Rev. GEORGE CRABBE, whom Byron has of chaplain to the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir characterised as Nature's sternest painter, yet Castle. This was a great advancement for the the best,' was of humble origin, and born at poor poet, and he never afterwards was in fear of Aldborough, in Suffolk, on the Christmas-eve of want. He seems, however, to have felt all the ills 1754 His father was collector of the salt-duties, of dependence on the great, and in his poem of or salt-master, as he was termed, and though The Patron, and other parts of his writings, has of poor circumstances and violent temper, he strongly depicted the evils of such a situation. In exerted himself to give George a superior educa- 1783 appeared The Village, which had been seen tion. It is pleasing to know that the old man and corrected by Johnson and Burke. Its success lived to reap his reward, in witnessing the celebrity was instant and complete. Some of the descripof his son, and to transcribe, with parental fond- tions in the poem-as that of the parish workhouse ness, in his own handwriting, the poem of The -were copied into all the periodicals, and took Library. Crabbe has described the unpromising that place in our national literature which they scene of his nativity with his usual force and still retain. Thurlow presented him with two correctness :

small livings then in his gift, telling him at the

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