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Then died lamented, in the strength of life, A valued mother and a faithful wife, Call'd not away, when time had loosed each hold On the fond heart, and each desire grew cold; But when, to all that knit us to our kind, She felt fast bound as charity can bind ;Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care, The drooping spirit for its fate prepare ; And, each affection failing, leaves the heart Loosed from life's charm, and willing to depart; But all her ties the strong invader broke, In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke ! Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, And terror grew, till every hope was gone : Still those around appear'd for hope to seek ! But view'd the sick, and were afraid to speak.

Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead, When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed : My part began; a crowd drew near the place, Awe in each eye, alarm in every face; So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind, That fear with pity mingled in each mind; Friends with the husband came their griefs to blend; For good-man Frankford was to all a friend. The last-born boy they held above the bier, He knew not grief, but cries express'd his fear; Each different age and sex reveal'd its pain, In now a louder, now a lower strain ; While the meek father, listening to their tones, Swell’d the full cadence of the grief by groans.

The elder sister strove her pangs to hide,
And soothing words to younger minds applied :
“ Be still, be patient,” oft she strove to say ;
But fail'd as oft, and weeping tum'd away.

Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill,
The village lads stood melancholy still;
And idle children, wandering to and fro,
As nature guided, took the tone of wo.

For he had learning: and when that was done,
We sat in silence-whither could we run ?
We said and then rush'd frighten'd from the door,
For we could bear our own conceit no more:
We callid on neighbours—there she had not been ;
We met some wanderers—ours they had not seen :
We hurried o'er the beach, both north and south,
Then join'd, and wander'd to our haven's mouth:
W bere rush'd the falling waters wildly out,
I scarcely heard the good man's fearful shout,
Who saw a something on the billow ride,
And-Heaven have mercy on our sins! he cried,
It is my child !—and to the present hour
So he believes—and spirits bave the power!

And she was gone! the waters wide and deep
Rolld o'er her body as she lay asleep!
She heard no more the angry waves and wind,
She heard no more the threatening of mankind;
Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuse of the storm,
To the hard rock was borne her comely forın!

Butoh! what storm was in that mind! what strife, That could compel her to lay down her life ! For she was seen within the sea to wade, By one at distance, when she first had pray'd; Then to a rock within the hither shoal, Softly, and with a fearful step, she stule; Then, when she gaind it, on the top she stood A moment still—and drept into the flood ! The man cried loudly, but he cried in vain, She heard not then-she never heard again!



She left her infant on the Sunday morn, A creature doom'd to shame! in sorrow born. She came not home to share our humble meal,Her father thinking what his child would feel From his hard sentence !-Stillshe came not home, The night grew dark, and yet she was not come ! The east-wind roar'd, the sea return'd the sound, And the rain fell as if the world were drown'u: There were no lights without, and my good man, To kindness frighten'd, with a groan began To talk of Ruth, and pray! and then he took The Bible down, and read the holy book :

A WIDE And sandy road has banks on either side ; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear’d, And there a gipsy tribe their tent bad rear'd ; "T was open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early traveller with their prayers to greet: While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try : Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes ; Train'd, but yet savage, in her speaking face, He mark'd the features of her vagrant race ; When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast ! Within, the father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, [by : Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed, And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dress’d, Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast; In her wild face some touch of grace remain’d, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd; Her blood-shot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turn'd, and secm'd her wants to


Ruth is betrothed-something more than betrothedto a young sailor, who, on the eve of marriage, is carried relentlessly off by a press-gang, and afterward slain in batile. A canting, hypocritical weaver afterward becomes a suitor of the widowed bride, and her father urges her with severity to wed the missioned suiter. The above extract is from the conclusion of the story, in the "Tales of the Hall.” The heroine has promised to give her answer on Sunday.'

Cursing his tardy aid-her mother there

They talk, indeed; but who can choose a friend, With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair; Or seek companions, at their journey's end ?Solemn and dull her look : with such she stands, What if no grievous fears their lives annoy, And reads the milk-maid's fortune, in her hands Is it not worse, no prospects to enjoy ? Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years, 'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view, Each feature now the steady falsehood wears ; With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new; With hard and savage eye she views the food, Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep And grudging pinches their intruding brood ! The day itself is, like the night, asleep: Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits, Or on the sameness if a break be made, Neglected, lost, and living but by fits;

”T is by some pauper to his grave convey'd ; Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, By smuggled news from neighbouring village told, And half-protected by the vicious son,

News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old ! Who half-supports him! He, with heavy glance, By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell, Views the young ruffians who around him dance; Or justice come to see that all goes well; And, by the sadness in his face, appears

Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl To trace the progress of their future years; (ceit, On the black footway winding with the wall, Through what strange course of misery, vice, de Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call. Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat ; Here the good pauper, losing all the praise What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, By worthy deeds acquired in better days, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led, Ere they like him approach their latter end, Expires—while strangers prattle round his bed. Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend!



Your plan I love not:—with a number you
Hare placed your poor, your pitiable few;
There, in one house, for all their lives to be,
The pauper-palace which they hate to see!
That giant building, that high bounding wall,
Those hare-worn walks, that lofty thundering hall!
That large, loud clock, which tolls each dreaded

Those gates and locks, and all those signs of power:
It is a prison with a milder name,
Which few inhabit without dread or shame.-

Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;
They've much to suffer, but have naught to tell :
They have no evil in the place to state,
And dare not say, it is the house they hate :
They own there's granted all such place can give,
But live repining,-for 'tis there they live!

Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,
No more must nurse upon the trembling knee,
The lost, loved daughter's infant progeny!
Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place
For joyful meetings of a kindred race.

Is not the matron there, to whom the son
Was wont at each declining day to run ;
He (when bis toil was over) gave delight,
By lifting up the latch, and one “Good night ?"
Yes she is here; but nightly to her door
The son, still labouring, can return no more.

Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Of husbands, children, plenty, ease, bereft;
Yet all that grief within the humble shed
Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed :
But here, in all its force, remains the grief,
And not one softening object for relief.

Who can, wben here, the social neighbour meet?
Who learn the story current in the street ?
Who to the long-known intimate impart
Facts they have learn'd, or feelings of the heart?-

Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose
A cause and party, as the bard his muse;
Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,
And through the town their dreams and omens fly:
So the sibylline leaves were blown about,
Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt;
So idle dreams, the journals of the night,
Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong

with right.
Some, champions for the rights that prop the crown,
Some, sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down;
Some, neutral powers, with secret forces fraught,
Wishing for war, but willing to be bought:
While some to every side and party go,
Shift every friend, and join with every foe;
Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strike
This side and that, the foes of both alike;
A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times,
Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes.

Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail,
Fickle and false, they veer with every gale;
As birds that migrate from a freezing shore,
In search of warmer climes, come skimming o'er,
Some bold adventurers first prepare to try
The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky;
But soon the growing summer's certain sun
Wins more and more, till all at last are won :
So, on the early prospect of disgrace,
Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race;
Instinctive tribes! their failing food they dread,
And buy, with timely change, their future bread.

Such are our guides : how many a peaceful head,
Born to be still, have they to wrangling led !
How many an honest zealot stolen from trade,
And factious tools of pious pastors made !
With clews like these they tread the maze of state,
These oracles explore, to learn our fate;
Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive,
Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.


Mr. SOTHEBY was born in London in the wrote the series of poems subsequently pubautuinn of 1757. He was educated at Har lished under the general title of Italy, which row, and on entering his eighteenth year he is the best of his numerous productions. The followed the example of his father, a colonel last of his works was a translation of Homer, in the Guards, by purchasing a commission commenced after he had entered upon his in the Tenth Dragoons. In 1780 he quitted seventieth year. He died in London on the the army, and bought a beautiful seat near thirtieth of December, 1833. Southampton, where for a considerable period Mr. Sotheby was a man of rare scholarhe devoted his time to the study of the classics ship, deeply imbued with the spirit of classiand the cultivation of poetry. On removing cal literature, and his numerous writings, to London in 1798 he was elected a member consisting of translations from the Greek, of the Royal Society, and soon after published Latin, and German, and original English his translation of WIELAND's Oberon. In 1816 poems, ill deserve the neglect to which they he visited the Continent, and while abroad have recently been consigned.


And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold,

And from the wild wood lair, and rocky den, I saw the ages backward rollid,

Round their bold chieftain rush'd strange forms of The scenes long past restore :

barbarous men: Scenes that Evander bade his guest behold, Then might be seen by the presageful eye When first the 'Trojan stept on Tiber's shore The vision of a rising realm unfold, The shepherds in the forum pen their fold; And temples roofd with gold. And the wild herdsman, on his untamed steed, And in the gloom of that remorseless time, Goads with prone spear the heifer's foaming speed, When Rome the Sabine seized, might be foreseen Where Rome, in second infancy, once more In the first triumph of successful crime, Sleeps in her cradle. But-in that drear waste, The shadowy arm of one of giant birth In that rude desert, when the wild goat sprung Forging a chain for earth : From cliff' to cliff, and the Tarpeian rock

And though slow ages roll'd their course between, Lourd o'er the untended flock,

The form as of a Cæsar, when he led And eagles on its crest their aërie hung:

His war-worn legions on, And when fierce gales bow'd the high pines, when Troubling the pastoral stream of peaceful Rubicon. blazed

Such might o'er clay-built Rome have been foretold The lightning, and the savage in the storm By word of human wisdom. But—what word, Some unknown godhead heard, and awe-struck, Save from thy lip, Jehovah's prophet! heard, gazed

When Rome was marble, and her temples gold, On Jove's imagined form :

And the globe Cæsar's footstool, who, when Rome And in that desert, when swoln Tiber's wave View'd the incommunicable name divine Went forth the twins to save,

Link a Faustina to an Antonine Their reedy cradle floating on his flood :

On their polluted temple; who but thou, While yet the infants on the she-wolf clung, The prophet of the Lord! what word, save thine, While yet they fearless play'd her brow beneath, Rome's utter desolation had denounced ? And mingled with their food

Yet, ere that destined time, The spirit of her blood,

The love-lute, and the viol, song, and mirth, As o'er them seen to breathe

Ring from her palace roofs. Hear'st thou not yet, With fond reverted neck she hung,

Metropolis of earth! And lick'd in turn each babe, and form'd with fos A voice borne back on every passing wind, tering tongue :

Wherever man has birth, And when the founder of imperial Rome

One voice, as from the lip of human kind, Fix'd on the robber hill, from earth aloof,

The echo of thy fame!-Flow they not yet, His predatory home,

As flow'd of yore, down each successive age And hung in triumph round his straw-thatch'd roof The chosen of the world, on pilgrimage, The wolf skin, and huge boar tusks, and the pride To commune with thy wrecks, and works sublime, Of branching antlers wide:

Where genius dwells enthroned ? And tower'd in giant strength, and sent afar

Rome! thou art doom'd to perish, and thy days, His voice, that on the mountain echoes rollid, Like mortal man's, are number'd: number'd all, Stern preluding the war:

Ere each fleet hour decays.

Though pride yet haunt thy palaces, though art
Thy sculptured marbles animate ; [gate;
Though thousands and ten thousands throng thy
Though kings and kingdoms with thy idol mart
Yet traffic, and thy throned priest adore :
Thy second reign shall pass,-pass like thy reign

Farewell !-o'er many a realm I go,

My natal isle to greet, Where summer sunbeams mildly glow, And sea-winds health and freshness blow

O'er freedom's hallow'd seat. Yet there, to thy romantic spot

Shall fancy oft retire, And hail the bower, the stream, the grot, Where earth's sole lord the world forgot,

And Horace smote the lyre.

of yore.



Spirit! who lovest to live unseen,

By brook or pathless dell,
Where wild woods burst the rocks between,
And floods, in streams of silver sheen,

Gush from their flinty cell !
Or where the ivy waves her woof,

And climbs the crag alone,
Haunts the cool grotto, daylight proof,
Where loitering drops that wear the roof

Turn all beneath to stone.
Shield me from summer's blaze of day,

From noon-tide's fiery gale,
And, as thy waters round me play,
Beneath the o'ershadowing cavern lay,

Till twilight spreads her veil.
Then guide me where the wandering moon

Rests on Mecenas' wall,
And echoes at night's solemn noon
In Tivoli's soft shades attune

The peaceful waterfall.
Again they float before my sight

T'he bower, the flood, the glade;
Agaia on yon romantic height
The Sybil's temple towers in light,

Above the dark cascade.
Down the steep cliff I wind my way

Along the dim retreat,
And, 'mid the torrents' deafening bray
Dash from my brow the foam away,

Where clashing cataracts meet.
And now I leave the rocks below,

And issuing forth from night,
View on the flakes that sunward fow,
A thousand rainbows round me glow,

And arch my way with light.
Again the myrtles o'er me breathe,

Fresh flowers my path perfume, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, And from the groves that bend beneath

Low trail their purple bloom.
Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,

Dark flood, and rivulet clear,
That wind, where'er you wander by,
A stream of beauty on the eye,

of music on the ear:And thou, that, when the wandering moon

Illurned the rocky dell,
Didst to my charmed ear attune
The echoes of night's solemn noon-

Spirit unseen! farewell!

Can I forget that beauteous day,

When, shelter'd from the burning beam,
First in thy haunted grot I lay,

And loosed my spirit to its dream,
Beneath the broken arch, o'erlaid
With ivy, dark with many a braid,
That clasp'd its tendrils to retain
The stone its roots had writhed in twain?
No zephyr on the leaflet play'd,
No bent grass bow'd its slender blade,
The coiled snake lay slumber-bound;
All mute, all motionless around,
Save, livelier, while others slept,
The lizard on the sunbeam leapt;
And louder, while the groves were still,
The unseen cigali, sharp and shrill,
As if their chirp could charm alone
Tired noontide with its unison.

Stranger! that roam'st in solitude !
Thou, too, 'mid tangling bushes rude,
Seek in the glen, yon heights between,
A rill more pure than Hippocrene,
That from a sacred fountain fed
The stream that fill'd its marble bed.
Its marble bed long since is gone,
And the stray water struggles on,
Brawling through weeds and stones its way
There, when o'erpower'd at blaze of day,
Nature languishes in light,
Pass within the gloom of night,
Where the cool grot's dark arch o'ershades
Thy temples, and the waving braids
Of many a fragment brier that weaves
Its blossom through the ivy leaves.
Thou, too, beneath that rocky roof,
Where the moss mats its thickest woof,
Shalt hear the gather'd ice-drops fall
Regular, at interval,
Drop after drop, one after one,
Making music on the stone,
Wbile every drop, in slow decay,
Wears the recumbent nymph away.
Thou, too, if e'er thy youthful ear
Thrill'd the Latian lay to hear,
Lull'd to slumber in that cave,
Shalt hail the nymph that held the wave ;
A goddess, who there deigned to meet
A mortal from Rome's regal seat,
And, o'er the gushing of her fount,
Mysterious truths divine to earthly ear recount.



William LISLE Bowles was born at King's harmonious," whose sadness always soothed Sutton in Northampshire, a village of which him

-“like the murmuring his father was vicar, in September, 1762. He

or wild bees in the sunny showers of Spring." took his degree of Master of Arts in 1792 at He subsequently published“ Verses to Trinity College, Oxford, where he obtained John Howard on his State of the Prisons and the chancellor's prize for a Latin poem on the Lazarettos," “ Hope,” “Coombe Ellen," “ St. Siege of Gibraltar. He soon after entered into Michael's Mount,” * A Collection of Poems" holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in in four volumes, “ The Battle of the Nile," Wiltshire, from which he was promoted to the “The Sorrows of Switzerland," “ The Misliving of Dumbledon in Gloucestershire, and sionary,” “The Grave the Last Saxon," finally, in 1803, to the prebendary of Salisbury “The Spirit of Discovery by Sea,” (the Cathedral. We believe he is still living on longest and best of his works,) “ The Little the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, where for many Villager's Verse Book,” and “Scenes and years he performed the duties of his office Shadows of Days Departed," which appeared with industrious zeal, and was much loved in 1837. He was at one time better known and respected for his piety, amenity, and as a critic than as a poet, from his celegenius.

brated controversy with Byron, and others, The first publication of Mr. Bowles, was a on the writings of Pope and the “invariable collection of Sonnets, printed in 1789. They principles" of poetry. were well received, and COLERIDGE speaks of The sonnets of Mr. Bowles are doubtless himself as having been withdrawn from perilo superior to his other productions, but even they ous errors by the "genial influence of a style were never generally popular. He is always of poetry so tender and yet so manly, so elegant and chaste, and sometimes tender, but natural and real, and yet so dignified and has little imagination or earnestness.


Perish his treasure with him! Haste with me,

We shall find out some sylvan nook, and then She left

If thou shouldst sometimes think upon these hills, The Severn's side, and fed with him she loved When they are distant far, and drop a tear, O'er the wide main; for he had told her tales Yes I will kiss it from thy cheek, and clasp Of happiness in distant lands, where care

Thy angel beauties closer to my breast; Comes not, and pointing to the golden clouds And while the winds blow o'er us, and the sun That shone above the waves, when evening came, Goes beautifully down, and thy soft cheek Whisper'd, “Oh! are there not sweet scenes of peace, Reclines on mine, I will enfold thee thus, Far from the murmurs of this cloudy mart, And proudly cry, My friend-my love-my wife !" Where gold alone bears sway, scenes of delight, So tempted he, and soon her heart approved, Where Love may lay his head upon the lap Nay woo'd, the blissful dream; and oft at eve, Of Innocence, and smile at all the toil

When the moon shone upon the wandering stream, Of the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealth She paced the castle's battlements, that threw Their only bliss ? Yes, there are scenes like these. Beneath their solemn shadow, and resign'd Leave the vain chidings of the world behind, To fancy and to tears, thought it most sweet Country, and hollow friends, and fly with me To wander o'er the world with him she loved. Where love and peace in distant vales invite. Nor was his birth ignoble, for be shone What wouldst thou here? Oh shall thy beauteous Mid England's gallant youth in Edward's reignlook

With countenance erect, and honest eye Of maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyes Commanding, (yet suffused in tenderness Of tenderness and soft subdued desire,

At times,) and smiles that like the lightning play'd Thy form, thy limbs-oh, madness be the prey On his brown cheek,—so nobly stern he stood, Of a decrepit spoiler, and for gold ?

Accomplish'd, generous, gentle, brave, sincere,

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