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THE SUDDEN DEATH AND FUNERAL.
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,
Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill,
For he had learning: and when that was done,
And she was gone! the waters wide and deep
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!
A GROUP OF GIPSIES.
THE DEATH OF RUTH.*
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
Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell;
Grandsires are there, who now no more must see,
Is not the matron there, to whom the son
Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Who can, wben here, the social neighbour meet?
Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose
Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail,
Such are our guides : how many a peaceful head,
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
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.
THE GROTTO OF EGERIA.
Spirit! who lovest to live unseen,
By brook or pathless dell,
Gush from their flinty cell !
And climbs the crag alone,
Turn all beneath to stone.
From noon-tide's fiery gale,
Till twilight spreads her veil.
Rests on Mecenas' wall,
The peaceful waterfall.
T'he bower, the flood, the glade;
Above the dark cascade.
Along the dim retreat,
Where clashing cataracts meet.
And issuing forth from night,
And arch my way with light.
Fresh flowers my path perfume, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, And from the groves that bend beneath
Low trail their purple bloom.
Dark flood, and rivulet clear,
of music on the ear:And thou, that, when the wandering moon
Illurned the rocky dell,
Spirit unseen! farewell!
Can I forget that beauteous day,
When, shelter'd from the burning beam,
And loosed my spirit to its dream,
Stranger! that roam'st in solitude !
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.
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.
DISCOVERY OF MADEIRA.
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,