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his literary labours. He laughed at misfor When ScUTHEY visited Scotland in 1820, he tunes while he alone was a sufferer, but he remarked to Mr. Telford, his companion, could ill bear the presence of poverty in the that there was “one distinguished individual home of his family. He visited London in whom he would wish to see again-the 1833, for the first and only time, and like every Ettrick Shepherd, who,” said he, “is altostranger of distinction was cordially welcomed gether an extraordinary being, a character in the higher circles as well as by all literary such as will not appear twice in five centuries, men; but he returned even poorer than he and differing most remarkably from BURNS went, and at the end of two years,-on the and all other self-taught writers.” He adtwenty-first of November, 1835,-he died. mired “his peculiar and innate power, of

He was a frank, generous, simple-hearted which there are ample evidences in all his man; vain, indeed, of his abilities, but never | poetical works, however defective they may unwilling to recognise genius in others. | be as to the accomplishment of art.”


Bosxy KILAEvy gaed up the glen ; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree: For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek i’ the green-wood shaw; Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame

When many a day had come and fled,
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,
When the bedes-man had pray'd, and the deadbell

Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,

The reek o' the cot hung over the plain,
! Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane:

When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme,
Late, late in the gloaming Kilmeny came hame!

« Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean;
By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat you that joup o' the lily sheen ?
That bonny snood of the birk sae green ?
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?".

Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her ee, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never

blew. But it seein'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue,

When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been ;
A land of love, and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night:
Where the river swa'd a living stream,
And the light a pure celestial beam:
The land of vision it would seem,
A still, an cverlasting dream. . . . . . .

And oh, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her ee!
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there;
And the soft desire of maiden's een
In that mild face could never be seen.
Her seymar was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melodye,
That floats along the twilight sea.
But she loved to raike the lanely glen,
And keep'd afar frae the haunts of men :
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.
But, wherever her peaceful form appear'd,
The wild beasts of the hill were cheer'd;
The wolf play'd blithely round the field,
The lordly bison low'd and kneelid;
The dun deer woo'd with manner bland,
And cower'd aneath her lily hand.
And when at even the woodlands rung,
When hymns of other worlds she sung
In ecstasy of sweet devotion,
Oh, then the glen was all in motion.
The wild beasts of the forest came,
Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,
And goved around charm’d and amazed ;
Even the dull cattle croon'd and gazed,
And murmur'd and look'd with anxious pain
For something the mystery to explain.
The buzzard came with the thristle-cock ;
The corby left her houf in the rock;
The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
The wolf and the kid their raike began,
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
The hawk and the hern attour them hung,
And the merl and the mavis forhooy'd their young;

And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd: | It was like an eve in a sinless world !


Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,Oh to abide in the desert with thee!



Now lock my chamber-door, father,

And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother

Of all this bitter weeping.
No earthly sleep can ease my smart,

Or even awhile reprieve it ;
For there's a pang at my young heart

That never more can leave it!
Oh, let me lie, and weep my fill

O'er wounds that heal can never;
And oh, kind Heaven! were it thy will,

To close these eyes for ever.
For how can maid's affections dear

Recall her love unshaken ?
Or how can heart of maiden bear

To know that heart forsaken?
Oh, why should vows so fondly made,

Be broken ere the morrow-
To one who loved as never maid

Loved in this world of sorrow !
The look of scorn I cannot brave,

Nor pity's eye more dreary ; A quiet sleep within the grave

Is all for which I weary! Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green,

And banks of broom so yellow! Too happy has this bosom been

Within your arbours mellow. That happiness is fled for ay,

And all is dark despondingSave in the opening gates of day,

And the dear home beyond them!

After a youth by woes o'ercast,
After a thousand sorrows past,
The lovely Mary once again
Set foot upon her native plain;
Knelt on the pier with modest grace,
And turn'd to heaven her beauteous face.
"T was then the caps in air were blended,
A thousand thousand shouts ascended,
Shiver'd the breeze around the throng,
Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong;
And every tongue gave thanks to heaven,
That Mary to their hopes was given,
Her comely form and graceful mien
Bespoke the lady and the queen;
The woes of one so fair and young
Moved every heart and every tongue.
Driven from her home, a helpless child,
To brave the winds and billows wild;
An exile bred in realms afar,
Amid commotions, broils, and war.
In one short year, her hopes all cross'd-
A parent, husband, kingdom, lost!
And all ere eighteen years had shed
Their honours o'er her royal head.
For such a queen, the Stuarts' heir-
A queen so courteous, young, and fair-
Who would not every foe defy ?
Who would not stand—who would not die ?
Light on her airy steed she sprung,
Around with golden tassels hung;
No chieftain there rode half so free,
Or half so light and gracefully.
How sweet to see her ringlets pale
Wide waving in the southland gale,
Which through the broom-wood blossoms flew,
To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!
Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen,
What beauties in her form were seen!
And when her courser's mane it swung,
A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again!
When Mary turn'd her wond'ring eyes
On rocks that seem'd to prop the skies ;
On palace, park, and battled pile;
On lake, on river, sea, and isle ;
O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew,
To distant mountains wild and blue;
She thought the isle that gave her birth,
The sweetest, wildest land on earth.


BIRD of the wilderness,

Elithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms



COLERIDGE was perhaps the most wonderful , kindred topics involved in the events of the genius of the nineteenth century. His mind time. His views then were extremely radiwas essentially philosophical, in the highest cal, and were soon after entirely rejected as sense of the word. In all his studies, and in the offspring of heated, unthinking enthusiall his teachings, he fastened upon the leading asm. In 1795 he married, and in 1798 went principles involved in his subject, and traced to Germany, where he spent some time in them with a logical power and a metaphysical making himself familiar with the language skill seldom equalled in any age. Doubtless, and philosophical literature of that land of his most enduring claim to the gratitude and | scholars. In 1800 he returned to England, recollection of the world grows out of his and became a firm and consistent Christian, agency in first making the English mind ac- maintaining the doctrines of the evangelical quainted with the spiritual philosophy which churches, and devoting a great portion of his has since his day, and in a great degree through thoughts to the evolution of a system which his efforts, entirely supplanted the sensuous should reconcile Philosophy and Christianity. system of Locke and other materialists. But Its great leading principles are scattered it is only with his life and poetry that we are throughout his works; but he did not live to now concerned.

combine them into a regular system, or to set He was born on the twentieth of October, them forth as clearly and connectedly as he 1773, at Ottery St. Mary's, in Devonshire, and designed to do. For a time, and for lack was the youngest of eleven children. His father of other employment, he wrote leading artiwas a clergyman of sound learning and ability. | cles for the “ London Morning Post;" and he At school, young COLERIDGE was the wonder passed the last nineteen years of his life in and delight of all who knew him. Even in the family of his ardent and devoted friend, boyhood he was famous for his wonderful | Dr. GILMAN, of Highgate. He was afflicted acquirements, and still more for those remark for a long period with most severe and painful able powers of conversation which gained for illness, which would have crushed the mental him from his school-fellow, the inimitable | power of inferior men; but through it all he CHARLES LAMB, the name of the “inspired laboured incessantly, and without “abating charity boy." He was from the earliest age one jot of heart or hope.” He had a large extremely fond of philosophical and theologi circle of friends, among whom were some of cal discussions; and he pursued his studies his most gifted cotemporaries, who regarded with so much ardour that he became by far him with a reverence seldom accorded to any the best scholar in the school. In 1791 he man: and he was in their midst a philosophic was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge, teacher, expounding the highest truths with which he left, however, without taking his an eloquence and persuasive beauty which degree. In a thoughtless mood he enlisted in Plato might have envied. His conversation the army, and astonished his fellow-soldiers is universally acknowledged to have been of by learned and eloquent lectures on Greek the most wonderful character. To a scholarverse and Greek philosophy; and his careless ship surpassing that of nearly all the men of display of his learning led to his discharge his age, he added an attractive manner and a from the service and his restoration to his musical voice; and those who were in the friends. In 1794 he published a small vo- habit of hearing him, have spoken of the nalame of poems, which included also some byture and effect of his conversation, in terms WORDSWORTH. In common with many of the which seem wild and extravagant, but which most gifted and enthusiastic young men of we have every reason to believe fall short of the time, he became greatly interested in the the truth. French revolution, then in progress, and de- / Many critics have spoken of COLERIDGE livered lectures at Bristol on human rights and as having promised much and accomplished

little. But whether we look at the actual was greatly in the habit of blending philosonumber of works he wrote, at the profound phy with poetry, and the tragedy of “ Reand weighty character of his productions, or morse" is a most admirable philosophical at the influence he exerted upon the world, development of his conception of the nature he will be found to have done more than any of conscience, as well as a powerful producof his cotemporaries. His prose writings tion of the imagination and the poetic faculty. occupy some eight or ten large volumes, and The life of COLERIDGE is uniformly decontain more thought than twice the number scribed as having been adorned by the sweet. of the works of any of his fellows. They est temper and all the social virtues. The constitute a perfect treasure of philosophical late distinguished WASHINGTON ALLSTON, who truth; and we know of no books in the lan- | was for a considerable period his intimate as. guage better adapted to implant the seeds of | sociate, declared his disposition to be angelic. true and noble character in the heart than his. | He was a close and ardent friend, a profound His poems are comprised in three volumes, scholar, and in every respect a great and good and contain some of the most exquisitely man. “Poetry," he said, “ has been to me beautiful productions which an age prolific in its own exceeding great reward:' it has great poets has produced. They all exhibit soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and a wonderfully gorgeous and powerful imagi- | refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solination, and a perfect command of language tude; and it has given me the habit of wishing and its harmonies. His taste was most ex- to discover the good and the beautiful in all quisite, and his knowledge of the spiritual, that meets and surrounds me.” He died on in man and in nature, clear and calm. He / the twenty-third of July, 1834.


Those stars, that glide behind them or between,

Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seenWell!-if the bard was weather-wise, who made Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence I see them all so excellently fair,
Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, My genial spirits fail !
Or the dull sobbing draft that moans and rakes

And what can these avail
Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? Which better far were mute!

It were a vain endeavour, For lo! the new moon, winter-bright!

Though I should gaze for ever And, overspread with phantom-light,

On that green light that lingers in the west :(With swimming phantom-light o'erspread, I may not hope from outward forms to win

But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread, The passion and the life, whose fountains are I see the old moon in her lap-foretelling

within ! The coming on of rain and squally blast. Oh, lady! we receive but what we give,And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And in our life alone does nature live :

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! | Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Those sounds_which oft have raised me, whilst And would we aught behold of higher worth they awed,

Than that inanimate, cold world, allow'd
And sent my soul abroad,-

To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
Might startle this dull pain—and make it move A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
and live!

Enveloping the earth-
A grief without a pang-void, dark, and drear And from the soul itself must there be sent
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
In word, or sigh, or tear:

Oh, pure of heart! thou needest not ask of me Oh, lady! in this wan and heartless mood, What this strong music in the soul may be :To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, What, and wherein it doth exist, All this long eve, so balmy and serene,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Have I been gazing on the western sky,

This beautiful and beauty-making power. And its peculiar tint of yellow-green;

Joy, virtuous lady !-joy, that ne'er was given And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye! Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, Life, and life's effluence-cloud at once and That give away their motion to the stars


Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power

Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing! Which wedding nature to us gives in dower, And may this storın be but a mountain-birth! A new earth and new heaven,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud

Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth! Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud

With light heart may she rise,
We in ourselves rejoice!

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,- | Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice !
All melodies the echoes of that voice,

To her may all things live, from pole to pole, All colours a suffusion from that light!

Their life the eddying of her living soul! There was a time when, though my path was rough, Oh, simple spirit ! guided from above.

This joy within me dallied with distress; | Dear lady !-friend devoutest of my choice,And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice!
Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness.
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine;
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine,

But now, afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;

VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
But oh! each visitation

Where hope clung feeding like a beeSuspends what nature gave me at my birth,

Both were mine! Life went a-maying, My shaping spirit of imagination!

With nature, hope and poesy, For, not to think of what I needs must feel,

When I was young! But to be still and patient, all I can,

When I was young ?--Ah, woful when! And, haply, by abstruse research to steal

Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! From my own nature all the natural man,

This breathing house not built with hands,This was my sole resource—my only plan:

This body that does me grievous wrong, Till that which suits a part infects the whole, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. How lightly then it flash'd along !Hence! viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, Reality's dark dream!

On winding lakes and rivers wide, I turn from you; and listen to the wind,

That ask no aid of sail or oar, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream

That fear no spite of wind or tide, Of agony, by torture lengthen'd out, (without, Naught cared this body for wind or weather, That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest When Youth and I lived in't, together!

Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree, Flowers are lovely-love is flower-like; . Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

Friendship is a sheltering tree ;Or lonely house long held the witches' home, Oh! the joys that came down, shower-like, Methinks, were fitter instruments for thee!

Of friendship, love and liberty, Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers,

Ere I was old! Of dark-brown gardens and of peeping flowers, Ere I was old ?—Ah, woful ere, Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among! Oh, Youth! for years so many and sweet, Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds !

'Tis known that thou and I were one, Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold !

I'll think it but a fond conceitWhat tell'st thou now about ?

It cannot be--that thou art gone! 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tollid:With groans of trampled men, with smarting And thou wert aye a masker bold ! wounds

What strange disguise hast now put on, At once they groan with pain and shudder with To make believe that thou art gone? the cold !

I see these locks in silvery slips, But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence !

This drooping gait, this alter'd size ;And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,

But springtide blossoms on thy lips, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! over!

Life is but thought:--so think I will
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and That Youth and I are housemates still !
A tale of less affright,

[loud ; Dew-drops are the gems of morning, And temper'd with delight,

But the tears of mournful eve! As Otway's self had framed the tender lay :

Where no hope is, life's a warning
'Tis of a little child,

That only serves to make us grieve,
Upon a lonesome wild,

When we are old !
Not far from home-but she had lost her way; That only serves to make us grieve,
And now, moans low, in bitter grief and fear, With oft and tedious taking leave,-
And now, screams loud, and hopes to make her Like some poor, nigh-related guest,
mother hear!

That may not rudely be dismiss'd, "T' is midnight!—but small thoughts have I of sleep. Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! And tells the jest—without the smile!

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