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GEORGE CRABBE.

This poet was born on the twenty-fourth of 1812, his “'Tales ;" and in 1819, his “ Tales December, 1754, at Aldborough, in Suffolk, of the Hall.” He died at Trowbridge, in where his father and grandfather were officers Wiltshire, in February, 1832. of the customs. At the school where he re-As a man, Crabbe was admired and loved by ceived his education he gained a prize for one all who knew him. Lockhart, in describing of his poems; and on leaving it he became an his person, says “his noble forehead, his apprentice to a surgeon and apothecary in his bright beaming eye-without any thing of native village. On the completion of his ap- old age about it, though he was then above prenticeship, abandoning all hope of success seventy-his sweet and innocent smile, and the in his profession, he went to London to com calm, mellow tones of his voice, all are repromence a life of authorship. Unknown and duced the moment I open any page of his poetunfriended, he endeavoured in vain to induce ry.” A perfect edition of his poetical writings, the booksellers to publish his writings. At with a graceful and sensible memoir by his son, length, in 1780, two years after his arrival in has been issued by Murray, since his death. the great metropolis, he ventured to print at The lovers of homely truth may appeal to his own expense a poem entitled “ The Can- Crabbe in proof that its sternest utterance is didate," which was favourably received. He dramatic. No poet has ventured to rely more was soon after introduced to EDMUND BURKE, entirely on fact. He paints without delicacy, who became his friend and patron, and pre- | but his touches are so very literal as to be sented him to Fox and other eminent con striking and effective. The poor have found temporaries. In 1781 he published “The in him their ablest annalist. The most gloomy Library," and was ordained a deacon. In the phases of life are described in his tales with following year he became curate of Ald an integrity that has rendered them almost as borough, and in 1783 he entered his name at imposing as a tragedy. The interest awakenTrinity Hall, Cambridge; but left the Uni- ed by his pictures is often fearful, merely versity without graduating, though he was from their appalling truth and touching misubsequently presented with the degree of nuteness. He was a mann rist, and some of B. C. L. After residing for a considerable | the features of his mannerism-his monotoperiod at Belvoir Castle, as chaplain to the nous versification, and minute portraitures of Duke of RUTLAND, he was introduced to the worthless characters, with their rude jests and Lord Chancellor THURLOW, who bestowed familiar moralizing—are unpleasing ; but his upon him successively the living of Frome powerful and graphic delineations of humble St. Quintin, in Dorsetshire, and the rectories life, his occasional touches of deepest tenderof Muston and West Allington in the diocese ness, and the profoundness of his wisdom, of Lincoln. In 1807 he published a com mark not less strongly than these blemishes, plete edition of his works then written, which all that he wrote, and will keep green his was received with general applause. Three reputation while the world we live in is the years afterward appeared “The Borough;" in scene of sin and suffering.

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WOMAN,

Till, as the morning sunbeams glow,

The cold phosphoric fires decay. That is the grave to Lucy shown,

The soil a pure and silver sand; The green, cold moss above it grown,

Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand: In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,

There let my maiden form be laid, Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd,

Nor for new guest that bed be made. There will the lark,—the lamb, in sport,

In air,-on earth, --securely play,
And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent, but not so gay.
I will not have the churchyard ground,

With bones all black and ugly grown,
To press my shivering body round,

Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,

In clammy beds of cold blue clay, Through which the ringed earth-worms creep;

And on the shrouded bosom prey ; I will not have the bell proclaim

When those sad marriage rites begin,And boys, without regard or shame,

Press the vile mouldering masses in. Say not, it is beneath my care;

I cannot these cold truths allow :These thoughts may not afflict me there,

But, oh! they vex and tease me now. Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,

That man a maiden's grave may trace; But thou, my Lucy, come alone,

And let affection find the place. Oh! take me from a world I hate,

Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold; And, in some pure and blessed state,

Let me my sister minds behold: From gross and sordid views refined,

Our heaven of spotless love to share, For only generous souls design'd,

And not a man to meet us there.

PLACE the white man on Afric's coast,

Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, Who of their scorn to Europe boast,

And paint their very demons white : There, while the sterner sex disdains

To soothe the woes they cannot feel, Woman will strive to heal his pains,

And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm pity's sacred glow,

From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope reflow,

That languish'd in the fainting heart. • What though so pale his haggard face,

So sunk and sad his looks,”—she cries : “ And far unlike our nobler race,

With crisped locks and rolling eyes; Yet misery marks him of our kind,

We see him lost, alone, afraid ! And pangs of body, griefs in mind,

Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. • Perhaps in some far distant shore

Thcre are who in these forms delight; Whose milky features please them more

Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright; Of such may be his weeping wife,

Such children for their sire may call; And if we spare his ebbing life,

Our kindness may preserve them all.” Thus her compassion woman shows;

Beneath the line her acts are these; Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows

Can her warm flow of pity freeze ;« From some sad land the stranger comes,

Where joys like ours are never found; Let's soothe him in our happy homes,

Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd. « 'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,

To see the famish'd stranger fed ; To milk for him the mother-deer,

To sinooth for him the furry bed. The powers above our Lapland bless

With good no other people know; T'enlarge the joys that we possess,

By feeling those that we bestow !" Thus, in extremes of cold and heat,

Where wandering man may trace his kind; Wherever grief and want retreat,

In woman they compassion find : She makes the female breast her seat,

And dictates mercy to the mind. Man may the sterner virtues know,

Determined justice, truth severe; But female hearts with pity glow,

And woman holds affliction dear: For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,

And suffering vice compels her tear, 'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,

And bid life's fairer views appear. To woman's gentle kind we owe

What comforts and delights us here; They its gay hopes on youth bestow,

And care they soothe—and age they cheer.

RECONCILIATION.

Me Damon was the first to wake

The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take

The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth,

Oh! cast it from my thought away ; Think of the day that gave it birth,

And this, its sweet returning day. Buried be all that has been done.

Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun

In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive,

Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live,

But that we meet, and that we love.

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The hours of innocence; the timid look
THE WRETCHED MIND.

Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took

And told his hope ; her trembling joy appears, Tr' unhappy man was found, Her forced reserve, and his retreating fears. The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd;

Yes! all are with him now, and all the while And all the dreadful tempest died away,

Life's early prospects and his Fanny smile: To the dull stillness of the misty day!

Then come his sister and his village friend, And now his freedom he attain'd-if free And he will now the sweetest moments spend The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be; Life has to yield :-No! never will he find The playful children of the place he meets; Again on earth such pleasure in his mind. Playful with them he rambles through the streets ; He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, In all they need, his stronger arm he lends, Love in their looks and pleasure on their tongue. And his lost mind to these approving friends. Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire

That gentle maid, whom once the youth had For more than true and honest hearts require, Is now with mild religious pity moved ; (loved, They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he Through the green lane,—then lingerin the mead, Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be;

Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom, And as she trembling speaks, his lively eyes And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum; Explore her looks, he listens to her sighs; (vade | Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass, Charm'd by her voice, the harmonious sounds in And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass, His clouded mind, and for a time persuade: Where dwarfish flowers among the gorse are spread, Like a pleased infant, who has newly caught, And the lamb browses by the linnet's bed! [way From the maternal glance, a gleam of thought; Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their He stands enrapt, the half-known voice to hear, O'er its rough bridge—and there behold the bay !-And starts, half-conscious, at the falling tear! The ocean smiling to the fervid sun

Rarely from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes, The waves that faintly fall and slowly runIn darker mood, as if to hide his woes;

The ships at distance, and the boats at hand:
But, soon returning, with impatience seeks (speaks; And now they walk upon the sea-side sand,
His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and Counting the number, and what kind they be,
Speaks a wild speech, with action all as wild Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea :
The children's leader, and himself a child ; Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold
He spins their top, or, at their bidding, bends The glittering waters on the shingles rollid :
His back, while o'er it leap his laughing friends; The timid girls, half-dreading their design,
Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more, Dip the small foot in the retarded brine, [flow,
And heedless children call him Silly Shore. And search for crimson weeds, which spreading

Or lie like pictures on the sand below;
With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun
Through the small waves so softly shines upon ;

And those live-lucid jellies which the eye THE DREAM OF THE CONDEMNED. Delights to trace as they swim glittering by :

Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire, Waes first I came

And will arrange above the parlour fire-
Within his view, I fancied there was shame,

Tokens of bliss !"
I judged resentment; I mistook the air-
These fainter passions live not with despair ;
Or but exist and die :—Hope, fear, and love,

A SEA FOG.
Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move,
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix'd dread, and always feels its power. When all you see through densest fog is seen;
He takes his tasteless food; and, when 't is done, When you can hear the fishers near at hand
Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one ; Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand;
For expectation is on time intent,

Or sometimes them and not their boat discern, Whether he brings us joy or punishment. Or, half-conceal’d, some figure at the stern;

Yes! e'en in sleep th' impressions all remain ; Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast, He hears the sentence, and he feels the chain; Will hear it strike against the viewless mast; He seems the place for that sad act to see,

While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain, And dreams the very thirst which then will be ! At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain. A priest attends—it seems the one he knew

'Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past, In his best days, beneath whose care he grew. Net after net, till you have seen the last ;

At this his terrors take a sudden flight And as you wait till all beyond you slip, He sees his native village with delight;

A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship, The house, the chamber, where he once array'd Breaking the silence with the dipping oar, His youthful person; where he knelt and pray’d: And their own tones, as labouring for the shore; Then too the comforts he enjoy'd at home, Those measured tones with which the scene agree, The days of joy; the joys themselves are come ; And give a sadness to serenity.

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