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Nearer, dearer bands of love
To the saints' communion ; Draw our souls in union,
Thither every hope ascend, To our Father's house above,
There may all our labours end.
The Common Lot. Once, in the flight of ages past,
He loved--but whom he loved the grave There lived a man and who was he? Hath lost in its unconscious womb: Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast
Oh, she was fair! but nought could say3 That man resembled thee.
Her beauty from the tomb.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died uzknown : His name has perished from the earth,
This truth survives alone:
He saw whatever thou hast seen:
Encountered all that troubles thee: He was-whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.
That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, The rolling seasons, day and night,
Alternate triumphed in his breast; Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and His bliss and woe-a smile, a tear !
main, Oblivion hides the rest.
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain. The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall; The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye We know that these were felt by him, That once their shades and glory threw, For these are felt by all.
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew. He suffered-but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoyed-but his delights are fled; The annals of the human race, Had friends his friends are now no Their ruins, since the world began, more;
Of him afford no other trace And foes-his foes are dead.
Than this there lived a man !
Prayer. Prayer is the soul's sincere desire
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice • Uttered or unexpressed;
Returning from his ways; The motion of a hidden fire
While angels in their songs rejoice, That trembles in the breast.
And say, 'Behold, he prays i' Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The saints in prayer appear as one The falling of a tear;
In word, and deed, and mind, The upward glancing of an eye,
When with the Father and his Son When none but God is near,
Their fellowship they find.
The Holy Spirit pleads;
For sinners intercedes.
The Life, the Truth, the Way, His watchword at the gates of death: The path of prayer thyself hast trod He enters heaven by prayer.
Lord, teach us how to pray!
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
THE HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.
The Hon. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER (1770-1834) published occasional poems of that description named vers de societe, whose highest object is to gild the social hour. They were exaggerated in compliment and adulation, and wittily parodied in the Rejected Addresses. As a companion, Mr. Spencer was much prized by the brilliant circles of the metropolis; but, if we may credit an anecdote told by Rogers, he must have been heartless and artificial. Moore wished that Spencer should bail him when he was in custody after the affair of the duel with Jeffrey. 'Spencer did not seem much inclined to do so, remarking that he could not well go out, for it was already twelve o'clock, and he had to be dressed by four.' Spencer, falling into pecuniary difficulties, removed to Paris, where he died. His poems were collected and published in 1835. Mr. Spencer translated the 'Leonora' of Bürger with great success, and in a vein of similar excellence composed some original ballads, one of which, marked by simplicity and pathos, we subjoin:
Berth Gelert, or the Grave of the Greyhound.
The flower of all his race;
A lion in the chase ?
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer:
'Twas only at Llewelyn's board
The faithful Gelert fed ;
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
His suppliant looks, as proue he fell, The gift of royal John;
No pity could impart; But now no Gelert could be f
But still his Gelert's dying yell And all the chase rode on.
Passed heavy o'er his heart. And now, as o'er the rocks and dells Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, The gallant chidings rise,
Some slumberer wakened nigh: All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
What words the parent's joy could tell The many-mingled cries !
To hear his infant's cry! That day Llewelyn little loved
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap The chase of hart and hare;
His hurried search had missed, And scant and small the booty pre
All glowing from his rosy sleep, For Gelert was not there.
The cherub boy he kissed. Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, When, near the portal seat,
But, the same couch beneath, His truant Gelert he espied,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Bounding his lord to greet.
Tremendous still in death. But, when he gained his castle-door, Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain ! Aghast the chieftain stood;
For now the truth was clear; The hound all o'er was smeared with His gallant hound the wolf had slain gore;
To save Llewelyn's heir. His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe! Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Best of thy kind, adieu! Unused such looks to meet,
The frantic blow which laid thee low His favourite checked his joyful guise, This heart shall ever rue.' And crouched and licked his feet.
And now a gallant tomb they raise, Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed,
With costly sculpture decked: And on went Gelert too;
And marbles storied with his praise And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Poor Gelert's bones protect. Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
There, never could the spearman pass, O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
Or forrester unmoved; With blood-stained covert rent;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass And all around, the walls and ground Llewelyn's sorrow proved. With recent blood besprent.
And there he hung his horn and spear, He called his child-no voice replied
And there as evening fell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear
And, till great Snowden's rocks grow old, * Hell-hound! my child's by thee dc- And cease the storm to brave,
The frantic father cried; (voured The consecrated spot shall hold And to the hilt his vengeful sword
The name of Gelert's Grave.' He plunged in Gelert's side.
When all its sands are diamond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass!. ,
Too late I stayed-forgive the crime;
Unheeded flew the hours;
That only treads on flowers!
The ebbing of the glass,
Oh, who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
Their plumage for his wings!
Her pall of transient death has spread, That lingered long, and latest died; When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, Ambition all dissolved to air,
And nought is wakeful but the dead : With phantom honours by his side.
No bloodless shape my way pursues, What empty shadows glimmer nigh?
No sheeted ghost my couch annoys; They once were Friendship, Truth, and Visions more sad my fancy views,
Since lifeless to my heart ye prove! These last two verses, Sir Walter Scott, who knew and esteemed Spencer, quotes in his diary, terming them fine lines,' and expressive of his own feelings amidst the wreck and desolation of his fortunes at Abbotsford.
HENRY LUTTRELL. Another man of wit and fashion, and a pleasing versifier, was HENRY LUTTRELL (1770—1851), author of 'Advice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme,' 1820, and · Crockford House,' 1827. Mr. Luttrell was a favourite in the circle of Holland House: 'none of the talkers whom I meet in London society,' said Rogers, 'can slide in a brilliant thing with such readiness as he does.' The writings of these witty and celebrated conversationists seldom do justice to their talents, but there are happy descriptive passages and touches of light satire in Luttrell's verses. Rogers used to quote an epigram made by his friend on the celebrated vocalist, Miss Tree:
On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings,
The tree will return her as good as she brings. Luttrell sat in the Irish parliament before the Union. He is said to have been a natural son of Lord Carhampton. The following are extracts from the Advice to Julia:
London in Autumn.
At rest, in motion--forced to roam
Nature proclaims one common lot
For all conditions— Be ye hot!'
And still the mercury mounts higher, Th’Egyptian plagues of dust and flies; Till London seems again on fire.
The November Fog of London.
Oft blundering from the pavement, fails Then deepening with a sordid stain
To feel his way along the rails; Of yellow, like a lion's mane.
Or at the crossings, in the roll Vapour importunate and dense,
Of every carriage dreads the pole. It wars at once with every sense.
Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dun, The ears escape not. All around
Blots from the face of heaven the sun. Returns a dull unwonted sound.
But soon a thicker, darker cloak Loath to stand still, afraid to stir,
Wraps all the town, behold, in smoke,
Which steam-compelling trade disgorges And Wollaston and Davy guide
The car that bears thee, at the side.
If any power can, any how Descends rejected from the skies;
Abate these nuisances, 'tis thou; Till struggling day, extinguished quite And see, to aid thee, in the blow, At noon gives place to candle-light.
The bill of Michael Angelo; O Chemistry, attractive maid,
Oh join-success a thing of course isDescend, in pity, to our aid:
Thy heavenly to his mortal forces; Come with thy all-pervading gases,
Make all chimneys chew the cud Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses,
Like hungry cows, as chimneys should! Thy fearful energies and wonders,
And since 'tis only smoke we draw Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders; Within our lungs at common law, Lét Carbon in thy train be seen,
Into their thirsty tubes be sent Dark Azote and fair Oxygen,
Fresh air, by act of parliament.
HENRY GALLY KNIGHT. Some Eastern tales in the manner and measure of Byron were written by an accomplished man of fortune, MR. HENRY GALLY KNIGHT (1786–1846). The first of these, ‘Ilderim, a Syrian Tale,' was published in 1816. This was followed by · Phrosyne, a Grecian Tale,' • Alashtar, an Arabian Tale,' 1817. Mr. Knight also wrote a dramatic poem, "Hannibal in Bithynia.' Though evincing poetical taste and correctness in the delineation of Eastern manners—for Mr. Knight had travelled—these poems failed in exciting attention; and their author turned to the study of our mediæval architecture. His 'Architectural Tour in Normandy,' and 'Ecclesiastical Architecture of Italy from the Time of Constantine to the Fifteenth Century'-the latter a splendidly illustrated work-are valuable additions to this branch of our historical literature.
SAYERS—HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. Several other minor poets of considerable merit at the beginning of this period, were read and admired by poetical students and critics, who have affectionately preserved their names, though the works they praised are now forgotten. DR. FRANK SAYERS, of Norwich (17631817) has been specially commemorated by Southey, though even in 1826' the laureate admitted that Sayers was out of date.' The works of this amiable physician consisted of Dramatic Sketches of the Ancient Northern Mythology,'1790; · Disquisitions, Metaphysical and Literary,' 1793; 'Nugæ Poeticæ,' 1803; Miscellanies,' 1805; &c. The works of Sayers were collected and republished, with an account of his life, by William Taylor of Norwich, in 1823.
IIELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) was very early in life introduced to public notice by Dr. Kippis, who recommended her first work, Edwin and Elfrida' (1782). She went to reside in France, imbibed republican opinions, and was near suffering with the Girondists during the tyranny of Robespierre. She was a voluminous writer both in prose and verse, author of Letters from France,' • Travels in Switerland,' 'Narrative of events in France,' 'Correspondence of Louis XVI., with Observations, &c. In 1823 she