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They move, a throng of mitre, cross, and Even now he bade her pause she look'd cope,

to heaven, In pale and vision's lastre. Sudden ope One long, wild pressure to his cheek was The chancel gates ; the stately abbot comes. given, Down to the ground are stoop'a the knight. Her pale lip quiver’d, would not say " fare..

ly plumes, And every lady bows her gemmed tiar, The bell gave one deep toll, it seem'd her That shoots down light like an earth-stooping star.

She started, strove his strong embrace to

sever, Then rush'd within the gate that shuts

for ever. "Open ye gates of peace, receive the bride,

But so much of the merit of Se. In beauty come to pledge her virgin vow. bastian lies in the story itself, that Oh! not with mortal thoughts those cheeks we shall not diminish the interest are dyed,

with which our readers will read it, Those downcast eyes not touch'd with more by quoting more, or by any attempt tal woe;

at analysis. We have already, we are Her's are the thoughts that light the seraph's sure, done enough to call attention to

glow, When, veiling his bright forehead with his Mr Croly's volume, and that is all the plume,

service of which such a volume can He lays before the throne his chaplet low.

ever stand in need. We regard it, inDaughter of princes, heir of glory, come ! deed, as the earnest of far better Open ye gates of peace. She triumphs o'er things ; but even if nothing more the tomb."

were to follow, we feel satisfied that “Come, beautiful, betrothed ! The bitter it would entitle its author to a persting

manent and a lofty place among the Of hope deferr'd can reach no bosom here, poets of his country. Here life is peace, unwreck'd by dreams It is very delightful to us, and we that spring

are sure it will be so to all men of From the dark bosom's living sepulchre. right feeling, to observe, that all the At these high gates die sorrow, sin, and fear. rising poetical genius of England is Woe to the heart where passion pours its tide; not infected either with the affectaSoon sinks the flood to leave the desart there; Here love's pure stream with hues of heaven

tions or the bad principles of those

who would fain be considered as have is dyed. Come, stainless spouse. Ye gates of peace ing taken the lead in a sort of poetical receive the bride !”

revolution amongst us.

On the con

trary, of the four young poets who In the low echoes of the anthem's close

have made any impression lately on The murmurs of a distant chorus rose.

the public mind, there are three to A portal open'd, in its shadow stood

whose writings we can turn with well A sable pomp, the hallow'd sisterhood,

MILThey led a white-robed form, young, 'deli- nigh unmingled satisfaction.

MAN, CornwALL, and CROLY, are all, cate, Where life's delicious spring was opening yet:

so far as we can see, possessed of a Yet was she stately, and, as up the aisle proper sense of that great responsibiShe moved, her proud, pale lip half wore a lity under which every English poet smile :

lies, and determined to conduct themHer eye was firm, yet those who saw it near, selves as becomes their dignity. In Saw on its lash the glistening of a tear.

all the writings of these men, it is easy All to Sidonia's passing daughter bow'd, And she returned it gravely, like one vow'd

to discover faults of youth; but in all To loftier things. But, once she paused; of them, the faults are of the right and prese'd

kind--faults, namely, of redundance, With quick, strange force her slight hand not of poverty

faults of careless exem to her breast,

cution, not of cold conception. They And her wan cheek was redden'd with a glow are all of them imitators of the great That spread its crimson to her forehead's poets that have immediately preceded snow,

them in the march of our literature As if the vestal felt the throes that wreak

it was impossible, probably, that they Their stings upon young hearts about to

should have been otherwise--but none break; She struggled, sigh'd ; her look of agony

of them are servile in their imitation, Was calm'd, and she was at Sidonia's knee. and they are all, in the best sense of Her father's chasing tears upon her fell ;

the word, original poets. They may His gentle heart abhorr'd the convent cell ; all, without doubt, become still more


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so-and we hope they will. Of the ature. Mr Croly, too, has points on three we know not which is our chief which he appears superior to both of favourite, or even on which of them these. He comes nearer than either our greatest expectations depend. Mr. of them to the burning intense rapiCornwall has many beauties of a more dity of Lord Byron's outline, and has delicate order than either Mr Milman a march in his versification that is as or Mr Croly has ever exemplified, and graceful as energetic. We observe we rather think he has more of the that he has in the press, Specimens dramatic tact than either of them is of the living English Poets,

on the ever likely to attain. Mr Milman, plan of Mr Campbell's work; and from again, has a richer eye, and a more the power of thought and the accuracy powerful grasp than either of his ri- of taste displayed in the present vovals—he is the likeliest of the three, lume, we are inclined to augur very in our opinion, to produce a great nar- highly of his success in this bold atrative poem, destined to take its place tempt. among the xTUATA IS est of our liter


Or, The Veteran of India.


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Where Indian village 'mid the grove of palms,
Her shadowed cots conceals; and devious path
Now guides the traveller past the peasant's door ;
Where sable child, amid his eager play,
Disparts from sparkling eye his clustered locks,
To gaze at man of Europe passing strange ;-
Now winds through garden rich with trees of fruit,
Where slenderest arec* waves her silvery stalk
Amid her brethren palms; or widening leads
Where eager damsels crowd the morning well,
Their earliest, coolest, draught unsoiled to draw;
And Indian beauty shews her sable charms,
In sylph-like grace, not undelightful seen,
Or speaks in downcast eyes, as traveller looks,
Her ebon-mantled blush : There, built apart,
Where opener site invites the seaward breeze,
A neater house mid verdant garden stands;
Whose herbs and flowerets, watered due at eve,
Defy the sun, and thrive in arid sand.
There lives a man of Europe ; brown with toil,
And many a fiery climate; hoar with age,
Yet cheerful, healthy; living now at ease,
A soldier long; receiving here reward
Of many a day of toil and scene of blood :
For years on upland Indian plains has lived,
With men whose unaccustomed ears would shrink
To hear an English word : has fought the wars
Of England, only Englishman, the rest
A band of sable warriors, trained to know
The arts of British battle ; Veteran now,-

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* The areca palms, though scarcely thicker than a man's arm, rise to the same height with the tall cocoa nut and date palms around them; and the number of their long slender stems, intermingled with the other trees, adds much to the romantic appearance of the Indian gardens. Not being of sufficient strength to bear a man's weight, (though the wood is slow of growth and extremely hard), their nuts are gathered by the bandarries, or climbers, by reaching from the adjacent trees.

In childhood came to Ind: can recollect
But few and faint the early scenes of home;
Where born, he scarcely knows : a wood, a hill,
Perchance a glittering lake, recalls to mind,
Or antique spire of grove-embosomed church;
On these with fondness dwell his thoughts entranced,
As men recall the faintly imaged face
Of mother dead in early infancy;
Or like the dream mid reaper's hour of rest,
Who sinks to sleep beside his gathered sheaves,
And wakes, by comrade called to join the toil
Of harvest's eager field ;-from beauteous dream,
To busy work aroused. His Indian cot
Is deck'd with pictured scenes of British clime;
Perchance some church on verdant hillock placed,

space of sacred ground, where frequent stands
The monument of village ancestry;
Or, haply, scene of many a childish sport,
Some frozen lake by skaiters lightly skimmed,
Where high cascade from wintry rocks is urged,
And forms its spray to thousand glittering shapes
Of caves and forests wild ; by Indian guest
Oft deemed the magic halls to Genii given,
Where shadowy trees with jewels sparkling bloom.
And oft the Veteran's dreaming fancy seeks,
Amid these random scenes, resemblance faint,
Of youthful haunts by flickering memory loved
In age and foreign land. Of earliest friends
That with him left their native English shore,
But one, perchance, or two are now alive,
And those in other kingdoms; all the rest,
Like snowdrop flowers that fade from warmer sun,
Have withering died; and yearly crowds of more
Have since arrived, and withered too like them
Leaving few relicts; like the aged trees,
That, scattered lonely o'er some range of heath,
But shew where ancient forest once has been ;
Or, like the isles that mid some flooded land,
Rise, monuments of countries drowned beneath.
Sad relicts they! through many a peril come
Of battle, siege, and long and deadly march
In burning sun, or floods of Indian rain ;
And often

snatched from brink of yawning grave,
When sickness raged destroying; grateful some,
Expectant still of death ; while others live
And careless laugh, and think their frames are made
Of stuff too hard for Indian clime to wear.
Not he of whom I speak; his dangers past
Have taught that Heaven has power to try him still ;
For hard adversity had tamed his youth,
And discipline instilled; as cautious hind
(When round his infant wheat the wintry frost
Has bound protecting soil, and guards its roots)
Sends forth his eager flock, the ranker shoots
To tame ; and sees, when comes the softening spring,
Its roots more deeply firm, its verdant blade
To stronger height, and richer harvest grown.
Thus Heaven had Hubert's young luxuriance tamed
By many an ill; and thus had kindly given
For suffering youth, a firm and wiser age.
Through many a soldier's danger he had passed,

Where hard escape hadstrained his grateful heart
Vol. VIII.





To thoughts submiss; had lived in deathful langs
Where chilly night descends with wings of ice
On plains still faint with heat of feverish day ;-
Where sluggish morn reclines in aguish pain,
Amid her gathered mists, till saddened sun,
Seen through the vapoury mass slow rising dim,
Bids shivering men rush forth from couches chill,
To catch his earliest gleam, whose waxing heat,
Soon sickening grows, and scorches all the air.
Here fever's serpent fangs had stung the camp,
Like fiery snake, winged viewless through the air;
And round him, dropping fast, had comrades fallen.
Oft.--very oft,-from march of fainting day,
To gladsome rest arrived, one friendly hand
With him had reared the tent, had strewed the couch,
Had spread their wearied camel's store of food,
Then sat to talk of British home beloved,
Till eve's repast; yet, ere the hour had come
So near esteemed, the burning shaft of death,
That friend had felt,-slow carried forth a corse
Beyond the camp; whose every nightly site,
Might Indian wanderers know by range of graves
Amid their desart seen. Such dangers passed,
Had taught the Veteran old to own the hand
Of God in all, and still entreat his care:
And, next to Heaven, with grateful heart he tells
Of friends of former days; among them all
Her dearest, whose connubial care had soothed
His bitterest ills; in sickness dressed his couch,
Contrived some kindlier drink, some easier food,
When loathing heart had long rejected all,
And fainted, sick of life; had watched his bed
When death seemed watching near her; fanned his face
With cooling air, and warded off the fly,
That, ominous of death, alighting pressed
His moveless lips. What though her cheek was dark ?
Though Moorish prattle mixed with English word,
Spoke quaintly oft? And though her Indian modes
Seemed oft demure and shy? Was love like her's
Deserving less of all an English heart
Can grateful give? Or can her fondling pride
In English husband less affection meet
From him whom thus she loved ? Beside him now,
At sultry noon, she loves at ease to sit,
Beneath the cooler shade, and, pleased, beholds
Her friends and Indian neighbours crowd to seek
His aid or counsel, him advise or help,
And sometimes chide-superior still to all,
And still beloved-by her beloved the most.

Here too, at times, the Veteran's daughter comes

young Phoolranee,* bred from earliest youth
In modes demure of Indian maid to live,
And all retired their haram-veil to wear :
Yet had the damsel's heart in childhood learned,
(In tales of wonder told by British sire,)
Of dames who lived in England's freer world,
The friends, not slaves of men; as hears the nun,
With beating breast, some strange and glowing tale


* Phoolranee, the Queen of Flowers : it is used by the Hindoos rather as a term of endearment than as a proper name.


Of fields and groves, where maids are free to roam,
And swains return their love. Her bounding youth
Had thus been taught the Eastern chains to mock,
That wrap in ignorance the female heart,
And bind its manners cold; her sparkling eye
Told what her breast had from her sire acquired
Of British fire, and laughed, with maiden's scorn,
At many an Indian lover's proffered suit,
Whom, sportive, yet she loved at times to hear,
In tongue familiar, speak the ords of love,
And pour, in mellowest voice, her native songs
To British lips denied : but all his arts,
Mere flitting pastime, fled her altered mind
When tale sincere of British love was told,
By him her father loved. Phoolranee thus,
Like playful fawn, had passed her maiden life-
A matron now, she brings at eve her son
To meet her parents near their cottage tree,
And sooth, with filial care, their lonelier day
Of setting age. There, too, her father loves
To fondle o'er his grandchild, loves to trace
The hues of Europe brightening o'er his cheek,
And think himself restored again to home
In this sweet child of hope ; whilst near his knee
The young Phoolranee sits, and, smiling, asks,
If her young Henry's brow be not as fair
As was his grandsire's ? thinks her careful eye
May keep his youth untinged by Indian sun,
And see him bloom as did his sire, when first
From England come, the ruddy vision pressed
Those pallid shores. For much Phoolranee's heart
Around her Briton clung; and well she loved,
When he, from war's wild roaming toils released,
Could wend with her at eve, to sooth with talk
Of Britain's distant land her aged sire,
And teach his lisping son the words of home.
And he too fondly loved ; for here, at last,
From roamings wild, o'er many a region far,
The wandering youth had found again a home,
And hearts to yield him love. His country left,
Where step-dame's frown had chilled his father's hearth,
And sent, unfledged, the younglings forth to stray,
A cheerless path the erring youth had trode,
Amid the desart world ; like traveller lone
Amid the dreary sands of barren Zaar,
Who, fainting, thinks that here his bones shall bleach
Before the lonely sun; when lo! at morn
Some green oasis, 'mid the sea-like waste,
Appears to bless despair, whose trees of shade
And fields of verdure, more delightful seem
To wanderer's feverish heart and eyes inflamed.
Thus he once roamed; and thus, at last, had found
Amid the wild a home. Phoolranee's love
Had soothed his wandering heart, and given him here
Sweet resting place. Her reverend sire to him
Was more than father : skilled to sooth the mind
By long unkindness torn, and scarce withheld
(To wild defiance urged of men's repute)
In fierce excess forgetfulness to seek-
He stood the wayward orphan's generous friend ;
And mildly thus his long-neglected youth
To inward peace and soft content reclaimed ;

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