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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 oh, her beauty was fair to see,
THE BROKEN HEART.
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!
QUEEN MARY'S RETURN TO SCOT.
Now lock my chamber-door, father,
And say you left me sleeping;
Of all this bitter weeping.
Or even awhile reprieve it;
That never more can leave it!
O'er wounds that heal can never ;
To close these eyes for ever.
Recall her love unshaken ?
To know that heart forsaken ?
Be broken ere the morrow-
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,
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,
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,
Then, when the gloaming comes,
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
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
Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,
Which better far were mate !
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,)
The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
And sent my soul abroad, -
A stilled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
In word, or sigh, or tear:-
All this long eve, so balmy and serene, -
And its peculiar tint of yellow-green;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
My genial spirits fail !
And what can these avail
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever
And would we aught behold of higher worth
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
Enveloping the earth-
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Joy, virtuous lady !-joy, that ne'er was given
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
A new earth and new heaven,
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.
But oh! each visitation
My shaping spirit of imagination!
But to be still and patient, all I can,-
From my own nature all the natural man,
This was my sole resource—my only plan:
Reality's dark dream!
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!
When we are old !