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his literary labours. He laughed at misfor When Southey visited Scotland in 1820, he tunes while he alone was a sufferer, but he remarked to Mr. Telford, his companion, could ill bear the presence of poverty in the that there was “one distinguished individual home of his family. He visited London in whom he would wish to see again—the 1833, for the first and only time, and like every Ettrick Shepherd, who," said he, “is altostranger of distinction was cordially welcomed gether an extraordinary being, a character in the higher circles as well as by all literary such as will not appear twice in five centuries, men; but he returned even poorer than he and differing most remarkably from Burns went, and at the end of two years,—on the and all other self-taught writers.” He adtwenty-first of November, 1835,-he died. mired “his peculiar and innate power, of

He was a frank, generous, simple-hearted which there are ample evidences in all his man; vain, indeed, of his abilities, but never poetical works, however defective they may unwilling to recognise genius in others. be as to the accomplishment of art.”


Bonny KILMEXI gaed up the glen; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree: For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw; Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame

When many a day had come and filed, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedes-man had pray'd, and the deadbell

rung, Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain, Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane. When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme, Late, late in the gloaming Kilmeny came hame !

“ Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean; By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree, Yet you are halesome and fair to see. Where gat you that joup o' the lily sheen ? That bonny snood of the birk sae green? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?"

Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her ee, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare ; Kilneny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never

blew. But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue,

When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been ;
A land of love, and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night:
Where the river swa'd a living stream,
And the light a pure celestial beam :
The land of vision it would seem,
A still, an everlasting dream. ..

And oh, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her ee !
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there ;
And the soft desire of maiden's een
In that mild face could never be seen.
Her seymar was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melodye,
That floats along the twilight sea.
But she loved to raike the lanely glen,
And keep'd afar frae the haunts of men:
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.
But, wherever her peaceful form appear’d,
The wild beasts of the hill were cheer'd;
The wolf play'd blithely round the field,
The lordly bison low'd and kneeld;
The dun deer woo'd with manner bland,
And cower'd aneath her lily hand.
And when at even the woodlands rung,
When hymns of other worlds she sung
In ecstasy of sweet devotion,
Oh, then the glen was all in motion.
The wild beasts of the forest came,
Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,
And goved around charm'd and amazed ;
Even the dull cattle croon's and gazed,
And murmur'd and look'd with anxious pain
For something the mystery to explain.
The buzzard came with the thristle-cock;
The corby left her houf in the rock ;
The blackbird alang wi’ the eagle flew ;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
The wolf and the kid their raike began,
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
The hawk and the hern attour them hung,
And the merl and the mavis forhooy'd their young;
And all in a peaceful ring were hurld :
It was like an eve in a sinless world !


Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place,Oh to abide in the desert with thee!



Now lock my chamber-door, father,

And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother

Of all this bitter weeping.
No earthly sleep can ease my smart,

Or even awhile reprieve it;
For there's a pang at my young heart

That never more can leave it!
Oh, let me lie, and weep my fill

O'er wounds that heal can never ;
And oh, kind Heaven! were it thy will,

To close these eyes for ever.
For how can maid's affections dear

Recall her love unshaken ?
Or how can heart of maiden bear

To know that heart forsaken ?
Oh, why should vows so fondly made,

Be broken ere the morrow-
To one who loved as never maid

Loved in this world of sorrow ! The look of scorn I cannot brave,

Nor pity's eye more dreary ; A quiet sleep within the grave

Is all for which I weary! Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green,

And banks of broom so yellow! Too happy has this bosom been

Within your arbours mellow. That happiness is fled for ay,

And all is dark despondingSave in the opening gates of day,

And the dear home beyond them!

After a youth by woes o'ercast,
After a thousand sorrows past,
The lovely Mary once again
Set foot upon her native plain;
Knelt on the pier with modest grace,
And turn'd to heaven her beauteous face.
"T was then the caps in air were blended,
A thousand thousand shouts ascended,
Shiver'd the breeze around the throng,
Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong;
And every tongue gave thanks to heaven,
That Mary to their hopes was given,
Her comely form and graceful mien
Bespoke the lady and the queen;
The woes of one so fair and young
Moved every heart and every tongue.
Driven from her home, a helpless child,
To brave the winds and billows wild;
An exile bred in realms afar,
Amid commotions, broils, and war.
In one short year, her hopes all cross'd-
A parent, husband, kingdom, lost!
And all ere eighteen years had shed
Their honours o'er her royal head.
For such a queen, the Stuarts' heir-
A queen so courteous, young, and fair-
Who would not every foe defy ?
Who would not stand—who would not die ?
Light on her airy steed she sprung,
Around with golden tassels hung ;
No chieftain there rode half so free,
Or half so light and gracefully.
How sweet to see her ringlets pale
Wide waving in the southland gale,
Which through the broom-wood blossoms flew,
To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!
Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen,
What beauties in her forin were seen!
And when her courser's mane it swung,
A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again!
When Mary turn'd her wond'ring eyes
On rocks that seem'd to prop the skies ;
On palace, park, and battled pile ;
On lake, on river, sea, and isle ;
O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew,
To distant mountains wild and blue;
She thought the isle that gave her birth,
The sweetest, wildest land on earth.


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Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-placeOh to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cheru, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms


COLERIDGE was perhaps the most wonderful kindred topics involved in the events of the genius of the nineteenth century. His mind time. His views then were extremely radiwas essentially philosophical, in the highest cal, and were soon after entirely rejected as sense of the word. In all his studies, and in the offspring of heated, unthinking enthusiall his teachings, he fastened upon the leading asm. In 1795 he married, and in 1798 went principles involved in his subject, and traced to Germany, where he spent some time in them with a logical power and a metaphysical making himself familiar with the language skill seldom equalled in any age. Doubtless, and philosophical literature of that land of his most enduring claim to the gratitude and scholars. In 1800 he returned to England, recollection of the world grows out of his and became a firm and consistent Christian, agency in first making the English mind ac maintaining the doctrines of the evangelical quainted with the spiritual philosophy which churches, and devoting a great portion of his has since his day, and in a great degree through thoughts to the evolution of a system which his efforts, entirely supplanted the sensuous should reconcile Philosophy and Christianity. system of Locke and other materialists. But Its great leading principles are scattered it is only with his life and poetry that we are throughout his works; but he did not live to now concerned.

combine them into a regular system, or to set He was born on the twentieth of October, them forth as clearly and connectedly as he 1773, at Ottery St. Mary's, in Devonshire, and designed to do. For a time, and for lack was the youngest of eleven children. His father of other employment, he wrote leading artiwas a clergymnan of sound learning and ability. | cles for the London Morning Post;" and he At school, young COLERIDGE was the wonder passed the last nineteen years of his life in and delight of all who knew him. Even in the family of his ardent and devoted friend, boyhood he was famous for his wonderful | Dr. Gilman, of Highgate. He was afflicted acquirements, and still more for those remark- for a long period with most severe and painful able powers of conversation which gained for illness, which would have crushed the mental bim from his school-fellow, the inimitable power of inferior men; but through it all he Charles LAMB, the name of the “inspired laboured incessantly, and without “abating charity boy.” He was from the earliest age one jot of heart or hope.” He had a large extremely fond of philosophical and theologi- circle of friends, among whom were some of cal discussions; and he pursued his studies his most gifted cotemporaries, who regarded with so much ardour that he became by far him with a reverence seldom accorded to any the best scholar in the school. In 1791 he man: and he was in their midst a philosophic was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge, teacher, expounding the highest truths with which he left, however, without taking his an eloquence and persuasive beauty which degree. In a thoughtless mood he enlisted in Plato might have envied. His conversation the army, and astonished his fellow-soldiers is universally acknowledged to have been of by learned and eloquent lectures on Greek the most wonderful character. To a scholarverse and Greek philosophy; and his careless ship surpassing that of nearly all the men of display of his learning led to his discharge his age, he added an attractive manner and a from the service and his restoration to his musical voice; and those who were in the friends. In 1794 he published a small vo habit of hearing him, have spoken of the nalume of poems, which included also some by ture and effect of his conversation, in terms Wordsworth. In common with many of the which seem wild and extravagant, but which most gifted and enthusiastic young men of we have every reason to believe fall short of the time, he became greatly interested in the the truth. French revolution, then in progress, and de Many critics have spoken of COLERIDGE livered lectures at Bristol on human rights and as having promised much and accomplished

little. But whether we look at the actual was greatly in the habit of blending philosonumber of works he wrote, at the profound phy with poetry, and the tragedy of “Reand weighty character of his productions, or

morse” is a most admirable philosophical at the influence he exerted upon the world, development of his conception of the nature he will be found to have done more than any

of conscience, as well as a powerful producof his cotemporaries. His prose writings tion of the imagination and the poetic faculty. occupy some eight or ten large volunes, and The life of Coleridge is uniformly decontain more thought than twice the number scribed as having been adorned by the sweetof the works of any of his fellows. They est temper and all the social virtues. The constitute a perfect treasure of philosophical | late distinguished WASHINGTON Allston, who truth ; and we know of no books in the lan was for a considerable period his intimate as guage better adapted to implant the seeds of sociate, declared his disposition to be angelic. true and noble character in the heart than his. He was a close and ardent friend, a profound His poems are comprised in three volumes, scholar, and in every respect a great and good and contain some of the most exquisitely “Poetry," he said, 6 has been to me beautiful productions which an age prolific in • its own exceeding great reward:' it has great poets has produced. They all exhibit soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and a wonderfully gorgeous and powerful imagi- refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solination, and a perfect command of language tude; and it has given me the habit of wishing and its harmonies. His taste was most ex to discover the good and the beautiful in all quisite, and his knowledge of the spiritual, that meets and surrounds me.” He died on in man and in nature, clear and calm. He the twenty-third of July, 1834.



Well! if the bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,-
Or the dull sobbing draft that moans and rakes

Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,

Which better far were mate !
For lo! the new moon, winter-bright!
And, overspread with phantom-light,
(With swimming phantom-light o'erspread, ·

But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,)
I see the old moon in her lap—foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds—which oft have raised me, whilst

they awed,

And sent my soul abroad, -
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain—and make it move

and live!
A grief without a pang-void, dark, and drear-

A stilled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear:-
Oh, lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, -
Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow-green;
And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in Aakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars-

Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimm’d, but always seen-
Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue-
I see them all so excellently fair,
see, not feel, how beautifol they are !

My genial spirits fail !

And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ?

It were a vain endeavour,

Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west :-
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are

Oh, lady! we receive bat what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live :-
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!

And would we aught behold of higher worth
'Than that inanimate, cold world, allow'd
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the earth-
And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !
Oh, pure of heart! thou needest not ask of me
What this strong music in the soal may be :-
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous lady !-joy, that ne'er was given
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,-
Life, and life's effluence-cloud at once and


Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing!

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth! May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth!

With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ! To her may all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of her living soul !

Ok, simple spirit! guided from above.Dear lady!—friend devoutest of my choice,Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice!

Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power
Which wedding nature to us gives in dower,-

A new earth and new heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud-
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud-

We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light! There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress; And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness.
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine;
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine,
But now, afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;

But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, —

My shaping spirit of imagination!
For, not to think of what I needs must feel,

But to be still and patient, all I can,-
And, haply, by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural man,

This was my sole resource—my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
Hence! viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,-

Reality's dark dream!
I turr from you; and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony, by torture lengthen’d out, (without,That lute sent forth ! Thou wind, that ravest

Bare crag, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house long held the witches' home,

Methinks, were fitter instruments for thee! Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens and of peeping flowers, Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among !

Thou actor, perfect in all tragie sounds ! Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold !

What tell'st thou now about ?

"Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting

wounds At once they groan with pain and shudder with

the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence !

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is

over! It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and A tale of less affright,

[loud ;And temper’d with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay :

"T is of a little child,

Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home-but she had lost her way; And now, moans low, in bitter grief and fear, And now, screams loud, and hopes to make her

mother hear! "Tis midnight !—but small thoughts have I of sleep. Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

YOUTH AND AGE. VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying,

Where hope clung feeding like a bee-Both were mine! Life went a-maying, With nature, hope and poesy,

When I was young! When I was young ?-Ah, woful when! Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! This breathing house not built with hands,

This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands

How lightly then it flash'd along !Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,

On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide, Naught cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in't, together! Flowers are lovely-love is flower-like;

Friendship is a sheltering tree ;Oh! the joys that came down, shower-like, Of friendship, love and liberty,

Ere I was old! Ere I was old ?-Ah, woful ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! Oh, Youth ! for years so many and sweet,

"Tis known that thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit

It cannot be—that thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolld :

And thou wert aye a masker bold ! What strange disguise hast now put on,

To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips,

This drooping gait, this alter'd size ;But springtide blossoms on thy lips,

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought:—so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still! Dew-drops are the gems of morning,

But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,

When we are old !
That only serves to make us grieve,
With oft and tedious taking leave, -
Like some poor, nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismiss’d,
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest—without the smile!

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