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Her bosom heaved, she stept aside;'
She fled to me and wept.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel than see
The swelling of her heart.
She half inclosed me with her arms, I calmed ber fears; and she was calm,
My bright and beauteous bride!
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Love, Hope, and Patience in Education.
Love too will sink and die,
And the soft murmurs of the mother-dove,
When overtasked at length,
This bands. 48 house
Youth and Age.
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be that thou art gone!
What strange disguise hast now put on, This breathing house not built with To make-believe that thou art gone ? hands,'
I see these locks in silvery slips,
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And fears take sunshine from thine eyes Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yor Life is but thought: so think I will On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That Youth and I are housemates still. - That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide! Dewdrops are the gems of morning, Nought cared this body for wind or But the tears of mournful eve! weather,
Where no hope is, life's a warning When Youth and I lived in 't together. That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old : Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; That only serves to make us grieve Friendship is a sheltering tree:
With oft and tedious taking leave; o the joys that came down shower-like, Like some poor nigh-related guest, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
That may not rudely be dismissed,
Yet hath outstayed bis welcome while, Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
And tells the jest without the smile. Among the day-dreams of Coleridge, as we have already mentioned, was the hope of producing a great philosophical work, which he conceived would ultimately effect a revolution in what has been called philosophy or metaphysics in England and France. The only complete philosophical attempt of the poet was a slight introduction to the Encyclopædia ‘Metropolitana,' a preliminary treatise on Method,' from which we subjoin an extract.
Importance of Method. The habit of method should always be present and effective; but in order to render it so, a certain training or education of the mind is indispensably necessary. Events and images, the lively and spirit-stirring machinery of the external world, are lile ligut, and air, and moisture to the seed of the mind, which would else rot and perish. In all processes of mental tion the objects of the senses must stimulate the mind; and the mind must in n assimilate and digest the food which it thus receives from without. Method, therefore, must result from the due mean or balance between our passive impressions and the mind's reaction on them. So in the healthful state of the human body, waking and sleeping, rest and labour, reciprocally succeed each other, and mutually contribute to liveliness, and activity, And strength. There are certain stores proper, and, as it were, indigenous to the
in the ance between without. Met
* mind-such as the lleas of sumb r and figure, and the logical forms and combinations o concep'ion or thoit. Te mind that is rich and exuberant in this intellectual wealth is t, like a . icer, o Uwell upon the vain contemplation of its riches, is disposed to generaliz and methodise to excess, ever philosophising, and never descending to action, spreading its wings high in the air above some beloved spot, but never flying far and wide over earth and sea, to seek food, or to enjoy the endless beauties of nature; the fresh morning, and the warm noon, and the dewy eve. On the other hand, still less is to be expected, towards the methodising of science, from the man who flutters about in blindness like the bat; or is carried hither and thither, like the turtle sleeping on the wave, and fancying, because he moves, that he is in progress. ...
It is not solely in the formation of the human understanding, and in the constructions of science and literature, that the employment of method is indispensably necessary; but its importance is equally felt, and equally acknowledged, in the whole business and economy of active and domestic life. From the cottager's hearth or the workshop of the artisan, to the palace or the arsenal, the first merit that which admits neither substitute nor equivalent-is, that everything is in its place. Where this charm is wanting, every other merit either loses its name, or becomes an additional ground of accusation and regret. Of one by whom it is eminently possessed we sa, proverbially, that he is like clock-work. The resemblance extends bey nd the point of regularity, and yet falls far short of the truth. Both do, indeed, a o d vide and announce the silent and otherwise indistinguishable lapse of time; bu the man fmcthodical industry and honourable pursuits does more, he realises its idea! divisions, and gives a character and individuality to its moments. If the
ar des ibed as killing time, i e may be justly said to call it into life and moral bein“, while he makes it the listinct object not only of the consciousness, but of the CO ice. He organizes the hours, and gives them a soul; and to that, the very essenro which is to fleet and to have been, he communicates an imperishable and a spi tua, nature Of the good and faithful servant, whose energies, thus directed, are thu n ethodised, it is less truly affirmed that he lives in time, than that time lives i him. His days, months, and years, as the stops and punctual marks in the records of duties performed, will survive the wreck of worlds, and remain extant when time itself shall be no more.
REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. The Rev. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762–1850) enjoys the distinction of having delighted and inspired' the genius of Coleridge. His first publication was a small volume of sonnets published in 1789, to which additions were made from time to time, and in 1805 the collection had reached a ninth edition. Various other poetical works proceeded from the pen of Mr. Bowles: 'Coombe Ellen and St. Michael's Mount,' 1798; “Battle of the Nile,' 1799; “Sorrows of Switzerland,' 1801; Spirit of Discovery,' 1805; The Missionary of the Andes, 1815; Days Departed, 1828; St. John in Patmos,' 1833; &c. None of these works can be said to have been popular, though all of them contain passages of fine descriptive and meditative verse. Mr. Bowles had the true poetical feeling and imagination, refined by classical taste and acquirements. Coleridge was one of his earliest and most devoted admirers. A volume of Mr. Bowles's sonnets falling into the hands of the enthusiastic young poet, converted him from some ‘perilous errors' to the love of a style of poetry ct once tender and manly. The pupil outstripped his master in richness and luxuriance, though not in elegance or correctness. Mr. Bowles, in 1806, edited an edition of Pope's works, which, being attacked by Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets, led to a literary controversy, in which Lord Byron and others took a part. Bowles insisted strongly on descriptive poetry forming an indispensable part of the poetical character; 'every rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in nature's variety.' Campbell, on the other hand, objected to this Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring, and claimed for the poet (what Bowles never could have denied) nature, moral as well as ? external, the poetry of the passions, and the lights and shades of human manners. In reality, Pope occupied a middle position, in- . clining to the artificial side of life. Mr. Bowles was born at King'sSutton, Northamptonshire, and was educated first at Winchester School, under Joseph Warton, and subsequently at Trinity College, Oxford. He long held the rectory of Bremhill, in Wiltshire (of which George Herbert and Norris of Bemerton had also been incumbents), and from 1828 till his death he was a canon residentiary of Salisbury Cathedral. He is described by his neighbour, Moore the poet, as a simple, amiable, absent-minded scholar, poet, and musician.
Lulling to sad repose the weary sense
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeain of the transient shower,
Winter Evening at Home.
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane;
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall
Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn
He the green slope and level meadow views,
Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews ;
Or turns his ear to every random song
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Here Charity has fixed her chosen seat;
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat With hollow bodings round your ancient walls: And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry,
South American Scenery.
A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest-
Summer was in its prime; the parrot flocks
Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon,