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A RUSTIC ODE.
Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, “O rus !"

Of London pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades,-my eyes detest

This endless meal of brick!
What joy have I in June's return ?
My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn;

I scent no flowery gust:
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,

And turns me “dust to dust."
My son his daily course renews
Due east, but with no eastern dews;

The path is dry and hot!
His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,

But down a chimney's pot!
Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blithe,
Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!
My grass is of that sort,--alas!
That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass

By folks of vulgar tongue!
Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!
I think of cowslip-cups,—but meet

With very vile rebuffs !
For meadow buds, I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff

The turtle made at Cuff's.
How tenderly Rousseau review'd
His periwinkles! mine are stew'd!

My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

That marks the Bell and Crown! Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gayly sing

Or mourn in thickets deep? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchmen is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!
Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush!
That perch on leafy bough and bush,

And tune the various song ?
Two hurdy-gurdis, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,

Are all my “tuneful throng."
Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams,

And colours of the skies?
My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains

Of calimanco-dyes.
Sweet are the little brooks that run
O’er pebbles glancing in the sun,

Singing in soothing tones :
Not thus the city streamlets flow; ,
They make no music as they go,

Though never “ off the stones.”

Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap

Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear—the lambs.
The pipe whereon, in olden day,
The Arcadian herdsmen used to play

Sweetly, here soundeth not;
But merely breathes unwelcome fumes,
Meanwhile the city boor consumes

The rank weed—“piping hot."
All rural things are vilely mock'd,
On every hand the sense is shock'd

With objects hard to bear : Shades-vernal shades! where wine is sold ! And for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!
Where are ye, London meads and bowers,
And gardens redolent of flowers

Wherein the zephyr wons?
Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more!
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er ;

And that bare wood, -St. John's.
No pastoral scene procures me peace;

I hold no leasowes in my lease,

No cot set round with trees :
No sleep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And omnium furnishes my banks

With brokers, not with bees.
Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, “O rus!"

Of city pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades,-my eyes detest

This endless meal of brick.

FROM AN ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

Ou! clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine,

And do not take my tears amiss ; For tears must now to wash away

A thought that shows so stern as this: Forgive, if somewhile I forget,

In wo to come, the present bliss. As frighted Proserpine let fall

Her flowers at the sight of Dis,

Even so the dark and bright will kiss. The sunniest things throw sternest shade,

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid ! Now let us with a spell invoke

The full-orb’d moon to grieve our eyes; Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud

Lapp'd all about her, let her rise
All pale and dim, as if from rest
The ghost of the late buried sun

Had crept into the skies.
The moon ! she is the source of sighs,

The very face to make us sad; If but to think in other times

The same calm quiet look she had, As if the world held nothing base,

Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad ; The same fair light that shone in streams,

The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad; For so it is, with spent delights

She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad All things are touch'd with melancholy,

Born of the secret soul's mistrust, To feel her fair ethereal wings

Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust; Even the bright extremes of joy

Bring on conclusions of disgust, Like the sweet blossoms of the May,

Whose fragrance ends in must.

Oh give her, then, her tribute just,
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy !

There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely;

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.

TO A COLD BEAUTY. Lady, wouldst thou heiress be,

To winter's cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free,

Thou dost still lock up thy heart ;Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, But in the whiteness of thy brow? Scorn and cold neglect are made

For winter gloom and winter wind, But thou wilt wrong the summer air,

Breathing it to words unkind, Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song! When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flower, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup?
Let not cold December sit

Thus in love's peculiar throne ;-
Brooklets are not prison'd now,

But crystal frosts are all agone, And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May !

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

LOVE.
Love, dearest lady, such as I would speak,

Lives not within the humour of the eye;

Not being but an outward phantasy, That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak,

As if the rose made summer, -and so lie .

Amongst the perishable things that die, Unlike the love which I would give and seek :

Whose health is of no hue-to feel decay
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime.

Love is its own great loveliness alway,
And takes new lustre from the touch of time;

Its bough owns no December and no May,
But bears its blossom into winter's clime.

I REMEMBER, I remember,

The house where I was born, The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn: He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember,

The roses-red and white; The violets and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light !
The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,–

The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing: My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,

But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven

Than when I was a boy.

BY A LOVER.
By every sweet tradition of true hearts,
Graven by time, in love with his own lore ;

By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts,
Wherein love died to be alive the more;
Yea, by the sad impression on the shore,

Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear
That coast for ever, where the billow's roar

Moaneth for pity in the poet's ear;

By Hero's faith, and the forboding tear That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall;

By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear
That sigh'd around her flight; I swear by all,

The world shall find such pattern in my act,
As if love's great examples still were lack’d.

ROBERT POLLO K.

This poet was born of parents in humble | heavenward ; a bard, once of our earth, sings circumstances at Eaglesham, in Ayrshire, in the story of humanity, from the beginning 1799. He was educated at the University of until time is finished, Glasgow, and in 1827 took orders in the Scot - the righteous saved, the wicked damned, tish Secession Church. In the same year he And God's eternal government approved. published The Course of Time, and, on account | The subject is a noble one, and in the poem of impaired health, left Scotland with an in- there are graphic conceptions and passages of tention to proceed to Italy, but died, on his beauty and tenderness; but it is disfigured by way, at Southampton, on the fifteenth of Sep- amplifications and a redundancy of moral pictember.

tures; it has no continuous interest, and in The Course of Time was written during his parts of it which should have been and which student life, and when, unfriended and un- the author endeavoured to make the most imknown, he offered it to the publishers of Edin pressive, particularly those in which he subburgh, none of them were willing to bring it jects himself to a comparison with DANTE out. The manuscript was fortunately seen by and Milton, he utterly failed. . Professor Wilson, who quickly perceived its The Course of Time has been almost unimerits, and effected an arrangement between versally read. I have been informed that not the poet and Messrs. Blackwood, which re- less than twenty editions of it have been sold sulted in its publication. The plot of the in the United States, and it has been frepoem is very simple: The events of time are quently reprinted in Scotland. For its popufinished, and a being from some remote world larity, however, both here and in Great Britain, arrives in Paradise, where he inquires the it is more indebted to its theology than to its meaning of the hell he has seen on his way merits as a poem.

BYRON.

-

ADMIRE the goodness of Almighty God!
He riches gave, he intellectual strength,
To few, and therefore none commands to be
Or rich, or learn'd; nor promises reward
Of peace to these. On all, He moral worth
Bestow'd, and moral tribute ask'd from all.
And who that could not pay? who born so poor,
Of intellect so mean, as not to know
What seem'd the best; and, knowing, might not do?
As not to know what God and conscience bade,
And what they bade not able to obey ?
And he, who acted thus, fulfill'd the law
Eternal, and its promise reaped of peace;
Found peace this way alone : who sought it else,
Sought mellow grapes beneath the icy pole,
Sought blooming roses on the cheek of death,
Sought substance in a world of fleeting shades.

Take one example, to our purpose quite,
A man of rank, and of capacious soul,
Who riches had and fame, beyond desire,
An heir of flattery, to titles born,
And reputation, and luxurious life;
Yet, not content with ancestorial name,
Or to be known because his fathers were,
He on this height hereditary stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart

To take another step. Above him seem'd,
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye. [read;
No cost was spared. What books he wish'd, he
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days
Britannia's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
| And maids, as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur fill'd, and melody, and love.
Then travel came, and took him where he wish'd.
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battle-fields, where valour fought
In other days; and mused on ruins gray
| With years; and drank from old and fabulous wells,

And pluck'd the vine that first-born prophets pluck'd,
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave
Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste;
The heavens and earth of every country saw.
Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt,
Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.

He touch'd his harp, and nations heard, entranced,
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd,

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And open'd new fountains in the human heart. Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full,
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,

He died. He died of what? Of wretchedness;In other men, bis, fresh as morning, rose,

Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump And soar'd untrodden heights, and seem'd at home Of fame, drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts Where angels bashful look’d. Others, though great, That common millions might have quench'd; then Beneath their argument seem'd struggling whiles; Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. [died He from above descending stoop'd to touch His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoy'd, The loftiest thought; and proudly stoop'd, as though Fell from his arms, abhorrd; his passions died, It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self Died, all but dreary, solitary pride; He seem'd an old acquaintance, free to jest And all his sympathies in being died. At will with all her glorious majesty.

As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall, He laid his hand upon the ocean's mane," Which angry tides cast out on desert shore, And play'd familiar with his hoary locks;

And then, retiring, left it there to rot Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven; And with the thunder talk’d, as friend to friend; So he, cut from the sympathies of life, And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge, In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing, Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, Scorch'd, and desolate, and blasted soul, Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seem'd; A gloomy wilderness of dying thought,Then turn'd, and with the grasshopper, who sung Repined, and groan'd, and wither'd from the earth. His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. His grognings fill'd the land, his numbers fill'd; Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were; And yet he seem'd ashamed to groan: Poor man! Rocks, mountains,meteors,seas and winds and storms Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help. His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce Proof this, beyond all lingering of doubt, As equals deem'd. All passions of all men, That not with natural or mental wealth The wild and tame, the gentle and severe; Was God delighted, or his peace secured; All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane; That not in natural or mental wealth All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity ;

Was human happiness or grandeur found.
All that was hated, and all that was dear; Attempt, how monstrous, and how surely vain !
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man; With things of earthly sort, with aught but God,
He toss'd about, as tempest, wither'd leaves, With aught but moral excellence, truth, and love
Then, smiling, look'd upon the wreck he made. To satisfy and fill the immortal soul !
With terror now he froze the cowering blood, Attempt, vain inconceivably! attempt,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness; To satisfy the ocean with a drop,
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; To marry immortality to death,
But back into his soul retired, alone,

And with the unsubstantial shade of time,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously To fill the embrace of all eternity !
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So ocean from the plains his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,

THE MILLENNIUM.
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seem'd to mock the ruin he had wrought. The animals, as once in Eden, lived

As some fierce comet of tremendous size, In peace. The wolf dwelt with the lamb, the bear To which the stars did reverence, as it pass'd,

And leopard with the ox. With looks of love, So he through learning and through fancy took The tiger and the scaly crocodile His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top

Together met, at Gambia's palmy wave. Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soil'd and worn, Perch'd on the eagle's wing, the bird of song, As if he from the earth had labour'd up;

Singing, arose, and visited the sun; But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair, And with the falcon sat the gentle lark. He look'd, which down from higher regions came, The little child leap'd from his mother's arms And perch'd it there, to see what lay beneath. And stroked the crested snake, and rollid unhurt The nations gazed, and wonder'd much, and prais'd. Among his speckled waves, and wish'd him home; Critics before him fell in humble plight,

| And sauntering school-boys, slow returning, play'd Confounded fell, and made debasing signs (selves At eve about the lion's den, and wove, To catch his eye, and stretch'd, and swell’d them Into his shaggy mane, fantastic flowers. To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words

To meet the husbandman, early abroad, Of admiration vast: and many, too,

Hasted the deer, and waved its woody head; Many that aim'd to imitate his flight,

And round his dewy steps, the hare, unscared, With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made, Sported, and toy'd familiar with his dog. And gave abundant sport to after days. fmuch, The flocks and herds, o'er hill and valley spread,

Great man! the nations gazed, and wonder'd Exulting, cropp'd the ever-budding herb, And praised; and many call’d his evil good. The desert blossom'd, and the barren sung. Wits wrote in favour of his wickedness,

Justice and Mercy, Holiness and Love, And kings to do him honour took delight.

Among the people walk'd, Messiah reign'd, Thus, full of titles, flattery, honour, fame, And earth kept jubilee a thousand years.

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIM.

SELF.

In humble dwelling born, retired, remote; In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams, And melancholy deserts, where the sun Saw, as he pass'd, a shepherd only, here And there, watching his little flock, or heard The ploughman talking to his steers; his hopes, His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling, Among the dews and holy mountain airs; And fancy colour'd them with every hue Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams Of childhood fled away, those rainbow dreams, So innocent and fair, that wither'd age, Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye, And passing all between, look'd fondly back To see them once again, ere he departed: These fled away, and anxious thought, that wish'd To go, yet whither knew not well to go, Possess'd his soul, and held it still awhile. I He listen'd, and heard from far the voice of fame, Heard and was charm'd; and deep and sudden vow Of resolution made to be renown'd; And deeper vow'd again to keep his vow. His parents saw, his parents whom God made Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope. The ancient page he turn’d, read much, thought

much,
And with old bards of honourable name
Measured his soul severely; and look'd up
To fame, ambitious of no second place.
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair.
And out before him open’d many a path
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring;
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized,
The harp he loved, loved better than his life,
The harp which utter'd deepest notes, and held
The ear of thought a captive to its song.
He search'd and meditated much, and whiles,
With rapturous hand, in secret touch'd the lyre,
Aiming at glorious strains; and search'd again
For theme deserving of immortal verse;
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied;
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still.
Thus stood his mind, when round him came a

cloud,
Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud
Of ills we mention not: enough to say,
'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom.
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes,
One after one, put out, as nearer still
It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst;
Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs,
The bitterest cup that time could measure out;
And, having done, look up, and ask for more.

He call'd philosophy, and with his heart
Reason'd. He call'd religion, too, but call’d
Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard.
Ashamed to be o'ermatch'd by earthly woes,
He sought, and sought with eye that dimm'd apace,

To find some avenue to light, some place
On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain.
Darker and darker still the darkness grew.
At length he sunk, and disappointment stood
His only comforter, and mournfully
Told all was past. His interest in life,
In being, ceased : and now he seem'd to feel,
And shudder'd as he felt, his powers of mind
Decaying in the spring-time of his day.
The vigorous, weak became; the clear, obscure;
Memory gave up her charge; Decision reel'd;
And from her flight, Fancy return'd, return'd
Because she found no nourishment abroad.
The blue heavens wither'd, and the moon, and sun,
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn
And evening, wither'd; and the eyes, and smiles,
And faces of all men and women, wither'd,
Wither'd to him; and all the universe,
Like something which had been, appear’d, but now
Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried
No more to hope, wish'd to forget his vow,
Wish'd to forget his harp; then ceased to wish
That was his last : enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear.
Of being sensible, and sensible
Of loss, he as some atom seem'd, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with ; but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.

Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent,
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless wo !
And who can tell how many, glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this pass of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanish'd from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there !

It was not so with him. When thus he lay, Forlorn of heart, wither'd and desolate, As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds, Selecting from its falling sisters, chase, Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes, And leave it there alone, to be forgotten Eternally, God pass'd in mercy byHis praise be ever new !-and on him breathed, And bade him live, and put into his hands A holy harp, into his lips a song, That roll'd its numbers down the tide of time: Ambitious now, but little to be praised Of men alone; ambitious most, to be Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have His name recorded in the book of life.

Such things were disappointment and remorse ; And oft united both, as friends severe, To teach men wisdom; but the fool, untaught, Was foolish still. His ear he stopp’d, his eyes He shut, and blindly, deafly obstinate, Forced desperately his way from wo to wo.

One place, one only place, there was on earth, Where no man e'er was fool, however mad. “ Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.” Ah! 'twas a truth most true; and sung in time, And to the sons of men, by one well known | On earth for lofty verse and lofty sense.

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