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Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
It flows through old hush'd Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a
dream, And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands, Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands That roam'd through the young world, the glory
extreme Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, The laughing queen that caught the world's great
hands. Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng, And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.
ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.
ABOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night
bless'd, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
Of all thy winning ways;
That I had less to praise.
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Of fancied faults afraid ;
That wipes thy quiet tears,
Dread memories for years.
I will not think of now;
Have wasted with dry brow :
And pat my stooping head,
The tears are in their bed.
When life and hope were new; Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too:
My bird when prison-bound,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
“His voice,-his face,-is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on: Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such wo,
That it will not be so.
This silence too the while-
Seem whispering us a smile :-
Seems going by one's ear,
SPRING IN RAVENNA.
The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May
openly. 'Tis Nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:The birds to the delicious time are singing,
BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR.
Mr. Proctor, better known as Barry CORN | chair, in a large library, notwithstanding, I WALL, was born in London, and educated at found the poet himself-choice old pictures Harrow, where Byron was among his class- | filling every nook between the book-shelves, mates. On leaving school he entered the tables covered with novels and annuals, rolls office of a solicitor at Calne, in Wiltshire: an of prints, busts and drawings in all the core uninteresting town, but celebrated for having ners; and, more important for the nonce, a been at various periods the residence of table at the poet's elbow, set forth with as Bowles, CRABBE, COLERIDGE, and Moore, sensible a breakfast as the most unpoetical of with all of whom PROCTOR became intimately men could desire.” acquainted. At the end of four years, passed Mr. Proctor married a daughter of Basil in the study of his profession, he went to Lon Montagu, the best of Lord Bacon's editors, don, and was soon after called to the bar. and a friend and patron of literary men. “The
Mr. Proctor's Dramatic Scenes—the work exquisite beauty of the Dramatic Scenes," our in which he first appeared as an author-were traveller informs iis, “interested this lovely published in 1815. They were succeeded by woman in his favour before she knew him, A Sicilian Story, Marcian Colonna, The Flood and far from worldly-wise as an attachment of Thessaly, the tragedy of Mirandola, and so grounded would seem, I never saw two several volumes of dramatic fragments, songs, people with a more habitual air of happiness. and miscellaneous poems, which have toge- | I thought of his touching song, ther won him a very high position among con
* How many summers, love, temporary poets. Charles Lamb said of his
llast thou been mine?' Fragments, that there was not one of them, and looked at them with an irrepressible feelhad he found them among the Garrick Plays ing of envy. A beautiful girl of eight or nine in the British Museum, to which he would years, the golden-tressed Adelaide,' delicate, have refused a place in his Dramatic Speci- gentle, and pensive, as if she was born on the mens. His songs are among the best in the lip of Castaly, and knew she was a poet's English language. They are full of tender- child, completed the picture of happiness....... ness and enthusiasm ; and if not as carefully “I took my leave of this true poet after half finished as they might be, they flow musically a day passed in his company,” continues Mr. and naturally like the unstudied effusions of Willis, “ with the impression that he makes an improvisator. Proctor has written besides upon every one of a man whose sincerity his poems several works in prose, among and kind-heartedness were the most promiwhich are a Life of Edmund Kean, a Lifel nent traits in his character. Simple in his of Ben Jonson, and An Essay upon the Genius language and feelings, a fond father, an affecof Shakspeare.
tionate husband, a business-man of the closest N. P. Willis, a warm admirer of the poet, habits of industry-one reads his strange imahas given in his Pencillings by the Way anginations, and high-wrought and even subliinteresting account of his visit to him in 1838. mated poetry, and is in doubt at which most 6. With the address he had given me at part to wonder—the man as he is, or the poet as ing,” says Mr. Willis, “I drove to a large / we know him in his books." house in Bedford square; and, not accustomed An edition of Mr. PROCTOR'S English to find the children of the muses waited on by Songs and other Short Poems was published servants in livery, I made up my mind, as I in London by Moxon in the summer of 1844; walked up the broad staircase, that I was and they have been reprinted in this country blundering upon some Mr. Proctor of the by Ticknor and Company of Boston. I beexchange, whose respect for his poetical lieve no edition of his dramatic writings has namesake, I hoped, would smooth my apology appeared in the United States. The selections for the intrusion. Buried in a deep morocco in this volume are from the last English edition.
So, wealth by want will be o'erthrown,
Swollen out by blood.
And quell this feud ?
"Tween “thee” and “me"-
Some space must be.
All nursed in gore-
From shore to shore ?
War, to the knife!
Man's puny life!
THE RISING OF THE NORTH.
Hark-to the sound!
Along the echoing ground.
In a blackening stream,
Like a demon's dream!
In angry hum,
By millions come.
And at their head
Of « Bread !-Bread!"
In wrath, in pain,
Oh, not in vain !
Read prayer and psalm,
And Sabbath calm.
And pride elate:
It cannot wait. For mark what comes :-To-night the poor (All mad) will burst the rich man's door,
And wine will run
Fierce as the sun;
In Indian heat!
And trampling feet :
Till creatures born
That was not a barren time
When the new world calmly lay Bare unto the frosty rime,
Open to the burning day. Though her young limbs were not clad
With the colours of the spring, Yet she was all inward glad,
Knowing all she bore within,
Undeveloped, blossoming. There was beauty, such as feeds
Poets in their secret hours; Music mute ; and all the seeds
And the signs of all the flowers.
Hid in oriental caves;
"Tween our cradles and our graves. Judge not, then, the poet's dreams
Barren all, and void of good: There are in them azure gleains,
Wisdom not all understood. Fables, with a heart of truth;
Mysteries, that unfold in light; Morals, beautiful for youth;
Starry lessons for the night. Unto man, in peace and strife,
True and false, and weak and strong, Unto all, in death and life,
Speaks the poet in his song.