Her plants diffuse their sea-green tresses round; From hoary crags, the yew his dark-green wing From winter's wrath is here again in joyance spread.' The author of the poem from which these very pretty stanzas have been taken is a Mr. Edwards, who, while drinking out of the Derbyshire Helicon himself, is in the habit of dispensing to others a more vulgar and perhaps more palatable liquid, in a well-ordered gin-shop in Derby. It augurs well for the march of intellect when provincial traders begin to woo the Muses; for though the poet's notes may not be always negotiable, they cannot fail to be admitted as evidence of the diffusion of literary taste. Mr Edwards is not the only living poet that Derby can boast; a Mr. Noble is the author of some fugitive pieces of great value, and the Dove has inspired a hundred others to sing of its Naiades and its beauties. It was here that honest old Izaak Walton, and his 'affectionate son and servant, Charles Cotton,' used to beguile the time, and cheat the trout, with lines of verse and hair; it was in this sweet spot that they mused and fished; alternately watching their ideas, and their ground-baits; preparing songs for posterity, and food for supper; and he who has read the one, and loves the other, and does not feel more happy, and feed more heartily, after a visit to the Dove, deserves to be lampooned in an epigram, and choked by a fish bone. Fishing, however, is now the recreation of the ploughman and the smith; and gentlemen are not often seen in such vulgar offices. The genus of your genuine angler is fast becoming extinct; the species are a bastard set; the blood of Walton is contaminated; and, alas! we 'ne'er shall look upon his like again!' Dove is now a sacred water; a holy stream in which no unhallowed horse-hair may be immersed! Who would not give his ears to fish where father Izaak fished? yet he who ventured, might lose head as well as ears; for boards at each end of the stream assert that these waters are preserved!' Genius of worms and minnows! preserve me from such a taste! The waters of the Dove to be associated with green gooseberries, and raspberry jam, sugared apricots, and currant jelly! and made a preserved fish pond! The sun had descended towards the west before we could tear ourselves from the attractions of Dove-dale; but we could not quit the neighbourhood of Ashbourn without going on a literary pilgrimage to the little lonely cottage in which Mr. Moore wrote his Lalla Rookh.' It has nothing remarkable about it; but its associations are of a very pleasing kind. A lady pointed out to us the room in which the poet used to write, the window through which he used to look, and the shrubbery in which he used to walk while composing his poems and melodies. He was, it appears, quite a peripatetic, his active spirit denying him repose, whilst his mental faculties were being exercised on some delightful subject of tenderness or friendship. It was evening when we departed from the cottage; but we did not consider it late: we thought the day had disappeared too soon, and, as the coach drove towards Derby, I could not help casting many a longing, lingering look behind.' London, Sept. 1829. M. B. FORGET ME NOT. WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. Appealing language! unto me Those fondest feelings, still the same, Prefer alike this touching claim, And say 'forget me not.' Barton's Poetic Vigils. WHEN Flora first begins her genial reign, The flowers' bright tints a thousand sweets exhale, The landscape's beauties, while they please the sight, Whilst some admire the gay parterre, which glows Low on the ground, with weeds and grass o'erspread, For many a flower is born to blush unseen :' What is thy name, fair flower, that lov'st to dwell Almost concealed, by grass, from human eyes?' Near yon tall vessel, in the port confined, Tears choke their utterance, whilst they closely clung, When the brave soldier, clad in warlike arms, Bestow,' he cries, whilst seated in your cot, But, oh! can colours paint or words impart And chides his master for his lengthened stay, She plucks a flower from yonder grassy plot, Keep it,' she cries, 'twill say-forget me not.' As on the stone which heads our kindred's graves, Their cherished names the chisel's point engraves, That those who loved them may, in future years, Read the rude lines and wet the stone with tears; So would I write, as on a marble tomb, A faint memorial for the years to come; When friendship's partial eye these lines shall read, Commissioned say: FORGET THE WRITER NOT.' GULIELMUS. THE OASIS OF THE DESERT. A BRIGHT green spot where many blossoming flowers, Twine their fair leaves into a thousand bowers; And, as he roams the barren wilderness, Give him a glimpse of joy, that makes his troubles less. Such is religion in the gloomy time, When all we fancied beautiful and bright, We find to be a wilderness of crime, A desert waste, without a ray of light. And when the heart by care and woe is riven, Religion gives it rest, and wafts the soul to heaven. K. *The writer frankly confesses that he is indebted for the idea of this sonnet to 'The Mirage' of Gulielmus, which appeared in the September Number, and to which the present composition is intended as a companion. FROM THE PERSIAN. ON parent's knee a naked, new-born childWeeping thou satt'st, whilst all around thee smiled; So live that, sinking into death's long sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep. HAFIZ. |