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Robert à Machin. But the sullen pride
Bursts frequent, half-revealing his scathed front, Of haughty D'Arfet scorn'd all other claim Above the rocking of the waste that rolls To his high heritage, save what the pomp
Boundless around :Of amplest wealth and loftier lineage gave.
No word through the long day Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks
She spoke :-Another slowly came :-No word One loved, one honour'd object, wealth alone The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. The sun He worshipp'd ; and for this he could consign Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge, His only child, his aged hope, to loathed
And cheerless rose again :-Ah, where are now Embraces, and a life of tears ! Nor here
Thy havens, France ? But yet-resign not yetHis hard ambition ended : for he sought
Ye lost sea-farers-oh, resign not yet By secret whispers of conspiracies
All hope—the storm is pass'd; the drenched sail His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift
Shines in the passing beam! Look up, and say, His arm avenging, and upon a youth
« Heaven, thou hast heard our prayers !" of promise close the dark forgotten gates
And lo! scarce seen, Of living sepulture, and in the gloom
A distant dusky spot appears ;—they reach Inhume the slowly-wasting victim.
An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales, So
And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams, He purposed, but in vain : the ardent youth Shine forth, a Paradise, which Heaven alone, Rescued her-her whom more than life he loved, Who saw the silent anguish of despair, E'en when the horrid day of sacrifice
Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves.Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark, They gain the haven-through untrodden scenes, And while he kiss'd a stealing tear that fell Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man On her pale cheek, as trusting she reclined Since first the earth arose, they wind : The voice Her heail upon his breast, with ardour cried, Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet, « Be mine, be only mine; the hour invites ; As waving woods retired, or falling streams, Be mine, be only mine." So won, she cast Can make; most soothing to the weary heart, A look of last affection on the towers
Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate, Where she had pass'd her infant days, that now And wearied long with watchings and with grief, Shone to the setting sun—"I follow thee,” Sought but a place of safety. All things here Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the air Whisper repose and peace; the very birds, A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her steps That mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes, Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides The songsters of the lonely valley, sing Down the smooth current, as the twilight fades, “ Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us."Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot
The wild wood opens, and a shady glen Where D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose,
Appears, embower'd with mantling laurels high, Are lost-a tear starts to her eye—she thinks That sloping shade the fowery valley's side; Of him whose gray head to the earth shall bend, A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays When he speaks nothing :-but be all, like death, Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves, Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze, Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain, And oh ! that now some fairy pinnance light It glances light along its yellow bed. Might fit along the wave, (by no seen power The shaggy inmates of the forest lick Directed, save when Love, a blooming boy, The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand.Gather'd or spread with tender hand the sail A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade That now some fairy pinnance, o'er the surge Its trembling top; and there upon the bank Silent, as in a summer's dream, might waft They rest them, while the heart o'erflows with joy. The passengers upon the conscious flood
Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet, To scenes of undisturbed joy.
Came down : a softer sound the circling seas, But hark !
The ancient woods resounded, while the dove, The wind is in the shrouds—the cordage sings Her murmurs interposing, tenderness With fitful violence-the blast now swells,
Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts Now sinks. Dread gloom invests the farther wave, Of those who, sever'd far from human kind, Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneath Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed, The veering bowsprit.
Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon O retire to rest, [cheek Arose-they saw it not-cheek was to cheek Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear Turn pale to see another thus exposed :
Witness'd how blissful was that hour, that seem'd Hark! the deep thunder louder peals—Oh save Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss The high mast crashes; but the faithful arm Stole on the listening silence; never yet Of love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye,
Here heard : they trembled, e'en as if the Power Soon as the gray of morning peeps, shall view That made the world, that planted the first pair Green Erin's hills aspiring !
In Paradise, amid the garden walk'd, -
This since the fairest garden that the world
Such was this sylvan Paradise ; and here
They sought their country o'er the waves, and left
Of the unfortunate, but for the voice
Of Enterprise, that spoke, from Sagre's tower,
DREAMS OF YOUTH.
BEREAVE me not of these delightful dreams
Which charm'd my youth; or mid her gay career Along the rocking of the windy waste
Of hope, or when the faintly-paining tear Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave
Sat sad on memory's cheek! though loftier themes Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss,
Await the awaken'd mind, to the high prize Poor victims! never more shall ye behold
Of wisdom hardly earn’d with toil and pain, Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child !
Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain Who, listening to the voice of love, has left
Cast friendless, where unheard some sufferer cries Thy friends, thy country,-oh may the wan hue
Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, Of pining memory, the sunk check, the eye
’T were not a crime, should we awhile delay Where tenderness yet dwells, atone, (if love
Amid the sunny field; and happier they, Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong
Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song Beset,) atone e'en now thy rash resolves.
To cheer their path, till they forget to weep;
And the tired sense is hush'd and sinks to sleep.
O TIME, who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away : Where love had deck'd the blooming bower, and
On thee I rest my only hopes at last ; strew'd
And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear, The sweets of summer: Death is on thy cheek,
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on many a sorrow past,
And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile.
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, sight,
Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while.
But ah! what ills must that poor heart endure,
Who hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure.
He placed the rude inscription on her stone,
As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past, Again the convent's vesper bells, O think
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
Sooth'd by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast
FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,* AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.
Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell
On some ideal maid,
And touch'd with softest shade :
And, pausing at the view, Recall thy gentle smile, and say,
Oh, such a maid I knew !"
ON THE RHINE.
The castle clock had tollid midnight
With mattock and with spade,
His corse in earth we laid.
Of other years might know,
Whose bones were laid below.
Slow pacing up the nave;
As deep we dug his grave.
In many a sullen gust,
We murmur'd, Dust to dust !"
Stream'd, as we placed the stone;
And all the windows shone.
That shook along the walls,
Were gazing from the stalls.
Sits darkness more profound, And only, by the torch, we traced
Our shadows on the ground. And now the chilly, freezing air,
Without, blew long and loud; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer
Where he-slept in his shroud. We laid the broken marble floor
No name, no trace appearsAnd when we closed the sounding door
We thought of him with tears.
”T was morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
(Hung with the blushes of the bending vine,) Strean’d the blue light, when on the sparkling
Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted; varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire ;
Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slow.
Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming vide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
WRITTEN AT OSTEND.
How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel ! And hark ! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now along the white and level tide
They fling their melancholy music wide, Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of suinmer days, and those delightful years, When hy my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime
First waked my wondering childhood into tears ; But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more.
I shall look back, when on the main,
Back to my native isle,
Thy voice, and view thy smile.
Ere I again shall see
One who resembles thee.
lo the account of the burial of the king in Windsor Castle by Sir Thomas Herbert, the spot where the body was laid is described minutely, opposite the eleventh stall. The whole account is singularly impressive ; but it is extraordinary it should ever have been supposed that the place of interment was unknown, when this description existed. At the late accidental disinterment, some of his hair was cut off. Soon after, the following lines were written, which I now set before the reader for the first time.
Ir chance some pensive stranger hither led,
His bosom glowing from romantic views,
The gorgeous palace or proud landscape's hues, Should ask who sleeps beneath this low bed ? "T is poor Matilda !-to the cloister'd scene
A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came
To shed her secret tears, and quench the flame Of hopeless love! yet was her look serene
As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle. Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spake of a departed friend :
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile ! Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest, Where hush'd lo long repose the wretched rest,
MR. Rogers was born in London in 1762. more eminent degree than they, but because On the completion of his university education, he is more than any other the poet of taste, he resided a considerable period on the conti and is guided by the sense of beauty rather nent, but nearly all his life has been passed than by the convictions of reason. Poetry is in his native city. He is a banker, and a in some sort an art, though Vida was forced man of liberal fortune; and among those who to admit the inefficiency of all rules if the know him he is scarcely more distinguished ingenia were wanting. If a man be by nature as a poet than for the elegance and amenity a poet, he must still have much cultivation of his manners, his knowledge of literature before he will be able to fulfil his mission. and the arts, and his brilliant conversation. There has never yet been an “uneducated" In his youth he was the companion of WYND verse-maker whose works were worth reading Ham, Fox, and SHERIDAN, and in later years a second time. But mere education, or eduhe has enjoyed the friendship of BYRON, cation joined with a philosophic mind and Moore, SoutheY, WORDSWORTH, and nearly some degree of taste, cannot make a great all the great authors and other eminent persons poet, as one illustrious example in our times who have been his contemporaries in England. will show. Rogers has not much imagination,
Mr. Rogers commenced his career as an not much of the creative faculty, and he lacks author with an Ode to Superstition, which sometimes energy and sometimes tenderness, was written in his twenty-fifth year. This yet he has taste and genuine simplicity: not was succeeded, in 1792, by The Pleasures the caricature of it for which the present lauof Memory, which was received with extra reate is distinguished, but such simplicity as ordinary favour by the critics. It had been Cowper had, and Burns. His subjects are kept the Horatian period, and revised and re all happily chosen; and a true poet proves written until it could receive no further ad the possession of the divine faculty almost as vantage from labour, guided by the nicest taste much in the selection of his themes as in their and judgment. In 1778 he published An treatment. His poetry is always pleasing; its Epistle to a Friend and other Poems, in 1812 freedom and harmony, its refined sentiment, its The Voyage of Columbus, in 1814 Jaqueline, purity, charm us before we are aware, and we in 1819 Human Life, and in 1822 the last, involuntarily place it among our treasures. longest, and best of his productions, Italy. Though less read than The Pleasures of
Lord Bacon describes poetry as “ having Memory, Italy is the best poem Mr. Rogers something of divineness, because it doth raise has produced. It was published anonymousand erect the mind, by submitting the shows | ly, and was so different from his previous of things to the desires of the mind; whereas works that its authorship was an enigma to reason doth buckle and bow the mind to the the critics. The several cantos are descripnature of things.” This is perhaps the most tive of particular scenes and events which inphilosophical description that has been given terest a traveller over the Alps and through of true poetry. There have been some poets, the northern parts of Italy. Some of these as CRABBE and ELLIOTT, whose verse has re cantos are remarkably spirited and beautiful, flected actual life; but they only who have as one may see by the extracts in this volume, conformed “the shows of things to the desires entitled Venice, Ginevra, and Don Garzia. of the mind,” can look with much confidence Within a few years Mr. Rogers has pubfor immortality. It is a long time since Rogers lished in two volumes, illustrated in the most made his first appearance before the world as beautiful manner by some of the first artists an author, yet his reputation has probably of England, his Complete Poetical Works. suffered less decay than that of any of his He is now in the eighty-third year of his contemporaries. This is not because he pos- age, and the oldest of the living poets of his sesses the higher qualities of the poet in a country.
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
From every point a ray of genius flows !
Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, Wher, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will ; Has class'd the insect tribes of human kind,
And cheaply circulates, through distant climes, Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing,
The fairest relics of the purest times. Its subtle web-work, or its venom'd sting;
Here from the mould to conscious being start Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours,
Those finer forms, the miracles of art;
That slept for ages in a second mine ;
A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace! To simple comforts, and domestic rites,
Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls, When the gay months of Carnival resume And my low roof the Vatican recalls ! Their annual round of glitter and perfume ;
Soon as the morning dream my pillow flies, When London hails thee to its splendid mart, To waking sense what brighter visions rise ! Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art;
Oh mark ! again the coursers of the sun, And, lo! majestic as thy manly song,
At Guido's call, their round of glory run ! Flows the full tide of human life along.
Again the rosy Hours resume their flight, Still must my partial pencil love to dwell
Obscured and lost in floods of golden light! On the home prospects of my hermit cell;
But could thine erring friend so long forget The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green, (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen;
'ì'hat here its warmest hues the pencil fings, And the brown pathway, that, with careless flow,
Lo! here the lost restores, the absent brings; Sinks, and is lost among the trees below,
And still the few best loved and most revered Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive)
Rise round the board their social smile endear'd. Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live.
Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass
There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers ! Browsing the hedge by fits, the pannier'd ass ;
There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams ; Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight; And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid,
Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade.
-Ah, most that art my grateful rapture calls, Far to the south a mountain vale retires,
Which breathes a soul into the silent walls; Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires ;
Which gathers round the wise of every tongue, Its upland lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung, All on whose words departed nations hung; Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung:
Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet; And through the various year, the various day,
Guides in the world, companions in retreat! What scenes of glory hurst, and melt away ! Though my thatch'd bath no rich Mosaic knows,
When April verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. And the furr'd beauty comes to winter there,
Emblem of life! which, still as we survey, She bids old Nature mar the plan no more;
Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! Y et still the seasons circle as before.
The shadowy walls record, with attic art, Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays,
The strength and beauty that its waves impart. Tho'moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze; Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears As soon the skylark pours his matin song, Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. Though evening lingers at the mask so long. There, Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise, There let her strike with momentary ray,
As her fair self, reflected, seems to rise ! As tapers shine their little lives away;
Far from the joy less glare, the maddening strife, There let her practise from herself to steal, And all “ the dull impertinence of life,” And look the happiness she does not feel ; These eyelids open to the rising ray, The ready smile and bidden blush employ And close, when Nature bids, at close of day. At Faro-routs, that dazzle to destroy ;
Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows; Fan with affected ease the essenced air,
There noonday levees call from faint repose. And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. Here the flush'd wave flings back the parting light; Be thine to meditate an humbler flight,
There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. When morning fills the fields with rosy light; When from his classic dreams the student steals, Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim,
Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels, Repose with dignity, with quiet fame.
To muse unnoticed-while around him press Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, The meteor-forms of equipage and dress; Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand Yet modest ornament, with use combined, A very stranger in his native land! Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. (quires, And (though perchance of current coin possest, Small change of scene, small space his home re And modern phrase hy living lips exprest) Who leads a life of satisfied desires.
Like those blest youths, forgive the fabling page, What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age,