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MR. Sotheby was born in London in the autumn of 1757. He was educated at Harrow, and on entering his eighteenth year he followed the example of his father, a colonel in the Guards, by purchasing a commission in the Tenth Dragoons. In 1780 he quitted the army, and bought a beautiful seat near Southampton, where for a considerable period he devoted his time to the study of the classics and the cultivation of poetry. On removing to London in 1798 he was elected a member of the Royal Society, and soon after published his translation of Wiel,AND's Oberon. In 1816 he visited the Continent, and while abroad
I saw the ages backward roll’d, The scenes long past restore: Scenes that Evander bade his guest behold, When first the Trojan stept on Tiber's shore— The shepherds in the forum pen their fold; And the wild herdsman, on his untamed steed, Goads with prone spear the heifer's foaming speed, Where Rome, in second infancy, once more Sleeps in her cradle. But—in that drear waste, In that rude desert, when the wild goat sprung From cliff to cliff, and the Tarpeian rock Lour'd o'er the untended flock, And eagles on its crest their aerie hung : And when fierce gales bow'd the high pines, when blazed The lightning, and the savage in the storm Some unknown godhead heard, and awe-struck, gazed On Jove's imagined form:— And in that desert, when swoln Tiber's wave Went forth the twins to save, Their reedy cradle floating on his flood: While yet the infants on the she-wolf clung, While yet they fearless play’d her brow beneath, And mingled with their food The spirit of her blood, As o'er them seen to breathe With fond reverted neck she hung, And lick'd in turn each babe, and form'd with fostering tongue: And when the founder of imperial Rome Fix'd on the robber hill, from earth aloof, His predatory home, And hung in triumph round his straw-thatch'd roof The wolf skin, and huge boar tusks, and the pride Of branching antlers wide: And tower'd in giant strength, and sent afar His voice, that on the mountain echoes roll'd,
Stern preluding the war:
wrote the series of poems subsequently published under the general title of Italy, which is the best of his numerous productions. The last of his works was a translation of Homer, commenced after he had entered upon his seventieth year. He died in London on the thirtieth of December, 1833. Mr. Sotheby was a man of rare scholarship, deeply imbued with the spirit of classical literature, and his numerous writings, consisting of translations from the Greek, Latin, and German, and original English poems, ill deserve the neglect to which they have recently been consigned.
And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold,
CAN I forget that beauteous day, -
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, While 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 Sutton in Northampshire, a village of which his father was vicar, in September, 1762. He took his degree of Master of Arts in 1792 at Trinity College, Oxford, where he obtained the chancellor's prize for a Latin poem on the Siege of Gibraltar. He soon after entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire, from which he was promoted to the living of Dumbledon in Gloucestershire, and finally, in 1803, to the prebendary of Salisbury Cathedral. We believe he is still living on the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, where for many years he performed the duties of his office with industrious zeal, and was much loved and respected for his piety, amenity, and
WILLIAM LISL E B O W L E S.
The first publication of Mr. Bowles, was a collection of Sonnets, printed in 1789. They were well received, and Coleridge speaks of himself as having been withdrawn from perilous errors by the “genial influence of a style of poetry so tender and yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so dignified and
DISCOVERY OF MADEIRA.
- SHE left The Severn's side, and fled with him she loved O'er the wide main; for he had told her tales Of happiness in distant lands, where care Comes not, and pointing to the golden clouds That shone above the waves, when evening came, Whisper'd, “Oh! are there not sweet scenesofpeace, Far from the murmurs of this cloudy mart, Where gold alone bears sway, scenes of delight, Where Love may lay his head upon the lap Of Innocence, and smile at all the toil Of the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealth Their only bliss 1 Yes, there are scenes like these. Leave the vain chidings of the world behind, Country, and hollow friends, and fly with me Where love and peace in distant vales invite. What wouldst thou here? Oh shall thy beauteous
look Of maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyes Of tenderness and soft subdued desire, Thy form, thy limbs—oh, madness!—be the prey Of a decrepit spoiler, and for gold 1–
harmonious,” whose sadness always soothed him— “like the murmuring Of wild bees in the sunny showere of Spring.” He subsequently published “Verses to John Howard on his State of the Prisons and Lazarettos,” “Hope,” “Coombe Ellen,” “St. Michael's Mount,” “A Collection of Poems” in four volumes, “The Battle of the Nile,” “The Sorrows of Switzerland,” “The Missionary,” “The Grave of the Last Saxon,” “The Spirit of Discovery by Sea,” (the longest and best of his works,) “The Little Villager's Verse Book,” and “Scenes and Shadows of Days Departed,” which appeared in 1837. He was at one time better known as a critic than as a poet, from his celebrated controversy with Byron, and others, on the writings of Pope and the “invariable principles” of poetry.
The sonnets of Mr. Bowles are doubtless superior to his other productions, but even they were never generally popular. He is always elegant and chaste, and sometimes tender, but has little imagination or earnestness.
Perish his treasure with him : Haste with me,
Robert à Machin. But the sullen pride
Bursts frequent, half-revealing his scathed front,
“Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers:"
And lo! scarce seen, A distant dusky spot appears;–they reach An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales, And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams, Shine forth, a Paradise, which Heaven alone, Who saw the silent anguish of despair, Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves.— They gain the haven—through untrodden scenes, Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man Since first the earth arose, they wind : The voice Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet, As waving woods retired, or falling streams, Can make; most soothing to the weary heart, Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate, And wearied long with watchings and with grief, Sought but a place of safety. All things here Whisper repose and peace; the very birds, That mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes, The songsters of the lonely valley, sing “Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us.”—
The wild wood opens, and a shady glen Appears, embower'd with mantling laurels high, That sloping shade the flowery valley's side; A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves, Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain, It glances light along its yellow bed. The shaggy inmates of the forest lick The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.— A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade Its trembling top; and there upon the bank They rest them, while the heart o'erflows with joy. Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet, Came down: a softer sound the circling seas, The ancient woods resounded, while the dove, Her murmurs interposing, tenderness Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts Of those who, sever'd far from human kind, Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed, Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon Arose—they saw it not—cheek was to cheek Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear Witness'd how blissful was that hour, that seem'd Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss Stole on the listening silence; never yet Here heard : they trembled, e'en as if the Power That made the world, that planted the first pair In Paradise, amid the garden walk'd,— This since the fairest garden that the world Has witness'd, by the fabling sons of Greece Hesperian named, who feign'd the watchful guard Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit.
Such was this sylvan Paradise; and here The loveliest pair, from a hard world remote, Upon each other's neck reclined; their breath Alone was heard, when the dove ceased on high Her plaint; and tenderly their faithful arms Enfolded each the other. Thou, dim cloud, That from the search of men, these beauteous vales Hast closed, oh doubly veil them' But, alas, How short the dream of human transport: Here, In vain they built the leafy bower of love, Or cull'd the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit. The hours unheeded stole; but ah! not long— Again the hollow tempest of the night [sound; Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods reSlow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sail Along the rocking of the windy waste Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss, Poor victims' never more shall ye behold Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child ! Who, listening to the voice of love, has left Thy friends, thy country, oh may the wan hue Of pining memory, the sunk check, the eye Where tenderness yet dwells, atone, (if love Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong Beset,) atone e'en now thy rash resolves. Ah, fruitless hope' Day after day thy bloom Fades, and the tender lustre of thy eye Is dimm'd; thy form, amid creation, seems The only drooping thing. Thy look was soft, And yet most animated, and thy step Light as the roe's upon the mountains. Now, Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree That fann'd its joyous leaves above thy head, Where love had deck'd the blooming bower, and strew'd The sweets of summer: Death is on thy cheek, And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns Of him, who, agonized and hopeless, hangs With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the sight, She faints—she dies — He laid her in the earth, Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb, Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined, Placed the last tribute of his earthly love. . . He placed the rude inscription on her stone, Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon Himself beside it sunk—yet ere he died, Faintly he spoke; “If ever ye shall hear, Companions of my few and evil days, Again the convent's vesper bells, O think Of me ! and if in after-times the search Of men should reach this far-removed spot, Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine, And virgin choirs chant duly o'er our grave— Peace, peace.” His arm upon the mournful stone He dropp'd—his eyes, ere yet in death they closed, Turn'd to the name till he could see no more— “ANNA.” His pale survivors, earth to earth, Weeping consign'd his poor remains, and placed Beneath the sod where all he loved was laid:— Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods,
Brar Ave me not of these delightful dreams
O TIME, who know'st a lenient hand to lay
As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,